


We Happy Yobs

by HPFandom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama, Explicit Language, Multi, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-20
Updated: 2005-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-30 04:49:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 59,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10154018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HPFandom_archivist/pseuds/HPFandom_archivist
Summary: In November of 1975, James Potter, Sirius Black, and Peter Pettigrew risk death, irrevocable damage, and Azkaban for their friend Remus Lupin, and in doing so set in motion a chain of events that will lead them from the hallowed halls of Hogwarts to the front lines of the war against Lord Voldemort. These brothers, bound by something stronger than blood, will soon realise that in war, nothing is sacred, no one is who they say they are, and the fate of the Wizarding world may be left in the hands of a few happy yobs.





	1. A Textbook Example

**Author's Note:**

> Note from SeparatriX, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [HP Fandom](http://fanlore.org/wiki/HP_Fandom_\(archive\)), which was closed for health and financial reasons. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [HP Fandom collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hpfandom/profile).

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. 

 

**Chapter One -- A Textbook Example**

 

November, 1975

 

In the world of a true Marauder, every prank had its place and purpose in that great tapestry of Prodigious Chaos and General Mayhem known as the disciplinary records (both individual and combined) of James Potter and Sirius Black. Most were of a common variety, such as that of bringing love, joy, and Firewhiskey to the intoxicant-deprived Gryffindor common room, or showing Severus Snape just who he was calling an imbecilic blood-traitor, or even hexing the living bollocks out of Bertram Aubrey for being a right tit. But, James Potter thought to himself as he settled into his secure and none-too-obvious hiding place behind the hideous statue of Matilda the Masochistic, the prank at hand was of particular importance. It was so important that it could not even rightly be considered a prank so much as a Holy Mission, a veritable quest of companionship and brotherhood.

Any and all intrusions of deep, philosophical thought were suddenly dashed as James heard the unmistakable sounds of exploding mischief echo resoundingly from the library. The unmistakable odour of singed parchment and burnt Explodo Pellets wafted through the corridor, followed by the frantic, wounded shrieks of the vulture-like Madam Pince and a flood of students stampeding out of the library. Craning his neck around a particularly prominent wart on the statue's chiselled cheek, James spotted his shaggy-haired friend in the crowd of young witches and wizards. Sirius caught his eye and winked just emphatically enough for James to take his cue.

" _Rocketro_ ," James uttered as quietly as he could, aiming his wand as the ceiling. Charms had never been his strongest subject—though he was certain he would pull at least an Exceeds Expectations from his Ordinary Wizarding Levels, such was his genius—and the charm was still very, very experimental, so he had to restrain a great heaving sigh of relief when a rocket made of red sparks shot from his wand, screeching a tinny whistle at a volume that would be considered inhumane at best. The rocket exploded in a shower of sparks, causing many of the more excitable students to let out shrieks of their own. Madam Pince burst out of the library, shrieking and wild-eyed, and pointed a long, hooked nail at a random student.

"YOU!" she bellowed. "You'd best run!" The tiny boy did so with no hesitation. Madam Pince, now without a visible target that was not running swiftly away from the scene of the crime, withdrew into her desecrated sanctum.

James smiled wryly—Remus would be crying by now, if he knew what they had done—and tapped his wand on the back of the statue's neck.

" _Subversio_!" he said. The witch pitched forward, bringing her squat platform up off the stone floor to reveal a hidden trapdoor. He opened it, staring into the darkened depths confidently, and wriggled his weedy form inside. His job was done.

***

Peter Pettigrew was not used to being invisible. No matter how many times he had donned James's Invisibility Cloak, he still could not shake the feeling that someone was watching him and could see his every movement. What made the feeling worse was wandering around, invisible, in the Hogwarts library. He had only been invisible for a moment or so when Sirius had set off his entire stockpile of miniature explosives, so it was not as if he had been given proper time to adjust to no one recalibrating their path of motion to include the short, rotund wizard.

There was no time to, as Sirius would have put it with a snide snarl of disgust, bitch and moan about timing and calibration, however—Madam Pince would only be distracted by the furious act of sacrilege perpetrated on her library for a few minutes, and he had a mission. Like a nervous first year, he crept though the endless rows of library stacks, seeking the one roped-off section that held the tome they needed. Peter was careful—he was not, as many people believed, a worthless moron of epic proportions—not to touch anything that did not explicitly bear the title he was seeking. Not even if it was called _Petrifying Procedures of Powerful Pricks_. 

_Especially_ not if it was entitled _Sanguine Secrets from the Sixteenth Son of the Serendipitous Serpent._

Peter's cheeks were quivering slightly as he gnawed on his lip, and he gave a huge exhalation of relief when his small, watery eyes happened upon the book he needed.

_Transfiguration for the Tastefully Taught_

_Volume VII -- Tragically Troublesome Transformations for the Terminally Tampering_

Peter snatched the book up and hurried out of the Restricted Section as surreptitiously as he could manage with the incessant awkwardness of the Potter family's Invisibility Cloak draped over his head. Now, with the library empty and his path clear, he could quickly scurry to the Marauders' meeting place as fast as his feet could propel him.

A shriek of woe and grief shook the very pages of the library books. Madam Pince had returned.

"Bollocks," Peter muttered under his breath. This was not an enormous obstacle—what with Peter still being invisible and all—but still one he had hoped to not to have to surmount at all, ever. Madam Pince had been known to hex unwary students, even to the point of long, sweeping gashes and other such physical disfigurations. Peter supposed that pain was the common interest between Irma Pince and her stalwart friend and ally against the students of Hogwarts, Argus Filch.

"Oh my, oh my," Madam Pince wept hysterically. "My books!"

Peter ran.

***

Sirius Black tapped his foot impatiently and checked the finely crafted Black Family Pocket Watch that his mother had presented to him on his eleventh birthday, back when the whole family—himself included—had thought he would be Sorted into Slytherin and had not had the presence of mind to reclaim for her other son. James was late, and whatever faults his wild-haired compatriot might have (such as an unhealthy and quite disturbing fixation on a certain Gryffindor redhead), he was always punctual. He was punctual like Moony was punctual. Except for now, when he appeared to be a good three minutes late.

Sirius was about to begin composing an epic ballad about the humiliating tardiness of James Potter when the creaky hatch of the secret passage was hurled open from below. Out of the unlit hole crawled a wand-clutching, torn-robed, and thoroughly slime-besmirched James.

"Took you long enough," Sirius said nonchalantly. 

James glared at him through his slimy spectacles. "You fucking twat, did you put your Zonko's haul in there? The Slinging Slimesacks?" he hissed, seething as he slopped a generous helping of the greenish, odious muck onto the stone floor.

Sirius grinned bemusedly. "You'd best watch where you're hurling that—Filch'll throw a wobbly if he sees you throwing slime round the castle."

"It's your slime, anyway, you daft prick."

"Maybe it is, maybe it isn't...lots of Zonko's regulars buy Slinging Slimesacks, I'll bet."

"Not the Extra Slimy Dozen Pack, they don't—only you old-family nutters have got the gold to load up on those. Don't tell me it was bleeding Avery or one of those gits—I ran into these things in the passage, about halfway through. Buggers chased me a good ten minutes before they finally got me."

"Good legs there, Jamie," Sirius said cheerily. "Besides, not like it won't wash off."

"Well, don't you think it's a bit suspicious to be walking about covered in this junk—especially since half the library just went up in flames?"

"Didn't burn up, James," Sirius said, as if James were a particularly confused six-year-old instead of a quite agitated fifteen-year-old. "Explodo Pellets are all about impact. The Fire-Poppers may've singed a couple of old books, but who really cares?"

"Moony will care," James said sulkily.

"I thought that was why we didn't ask Moony to help?"

"No, we didn't ask Moony because he doesn't know we're doing you-know-what with all these books."

"Speaking of, where's Pete? He's late—later than you, even."

"Fuck you, Black."

"Oh, James, I do so love it when you talk dirty to me."

James was about to retort with a scathing explosion of wit, or perhaps simply a punch to Sirius's shoulder, when Peter came barrelling round the corridor corner, clutching a thick, musty tome in his stubby-fingered hands. He was panting heavily and his round face blushing with exertion, not because the boy was drastically inept as much as the fact that he had traversed three floors worth of the notoriously convoluted Hogwarts corridors in less than five minutes.

"Did you get it?" Sirius asked, even as he spotted the book. His eyes were wide and frenzied with anticipation as he stared at the old volume.

"Hand it over," James said.

Fumbling with the heavy binding, Peter Pettigrew gave James the book. The weedy boy held it reverently, his eyes drinking in the title.

"And you're sure this is it, Pete?" demanded Sirius.

The boy nodded and his blush deepened indignantly. "Yes, Sirius, I am," he said adamantly, his watery eyes narrowing as he glared at the broad-shouldered Black. Sirius remained oblivious to Peter's scornful look, instead peering at the title over James's shoulder.

"Good show, Pete," James uttered, awestruck. "Good _show_."

Peter grinned and nodded. "Not a problem, mate. Here's your Cloak, by the way," he said, pulling the silvery-grey raiment from his rucksack. "Had to take it off, I was getting dizzy on the staircases."

"Can we start?" Sirius pleaded with canine enthusiasm. "Can we, can we? Right now?"

"Maybe we should wait," James said slowly. "After dinner?"

"Where, though?" Peter asked.

James pondered this. "What about the Always Empty Classroom?"

***

Remus Lupin hated being a prefect. In fact, he loathed it with all his heart and soul, and he desperately wanted to hate Albus Dumbledore for giving him the shiny badge with all its worthlessness and alienation bundled within its cruel metallic edges. He despised that he had only been given the badge because Dumbledore thought he might have been able to keep James and Sirius and even Peter somewhere remotely near that elusive state called 'in line' when it should have been obvious that James and Sirius (and yes, even Peter) would simply leave him by the side of the road—or corridor, as the case may be—to perish solemnly as they went off to conduct their mischief, which they had promptly done. In fact, they only seemed to talk with him at meals, in lessons, or after curfew. Remus hated that he could not hate Dumbledore, because Dumbledore had given him a chance when no other headmaster would have. Most of all, he hated James and Sirius and Peter and Dumbledore for making him think in superfluous run-on sentences, and he hated himself for feeling so alone. It had nothing to do with being a werewolf.

"Bother," he muttered to the empty air of the common room, perching his quill on his frowning lips. He desperately wanted to snap the quill in two and hurl his ink bottle across the common room so he could watch the black ink spread like a bloodstain across the shaggy carpet. Sullying things was good for the soul, he supposed, and if there was a soul that needed healing it was most certainly his own. He settled for dipping his quill into his ink and returning the tip to the top of his parchment. He removed it again, just as quickly, and scowled.

It was not that he was normally the sort of chap that went round scowling at random—in fact, there was probably not a person in the castle who would attest to him expressing any sort of visible emotion outside the spectrum of mild surprise and equally mild disappointment in his wastrel, yobbo friends. What was really agitating him was the familiar loneliness that seemed to envelop him like a warm blanket of self-loathing. It made him very angry, which he supposed would have been preferable to depression if he had not been feeling depressed on top of angry, and Remus Lupin angry was a tightly wound ball of patchy jumpers, trousers that did not quite fit, and barely repressed teenage frustration. It had nothing to do with being a werewolf.

When Professor Morley sneered ever so slightly as he assigned their Defence Against the Dark Arts essay, Remus had felt a similar urge to hurl his ink bottle, and perhaps a well-chosen hex. He had resisted and told himself that hexing was a juvenile endeavour, and to hex a professor was a reprehensible act. Furthermore, he had warned himself, hurling things was an impulse taken straight from the careless mind of Sirius Black, who had done nothing but regard him with occupied indifference since the first week of classes. James and Peter had at least spoken to him fairly regularly, even if they had been intentionally vague about what chaos they had been wreaking throughout the school—a side-effect, Remus thought loathingly, of his new prefect status. No sense in grassing on themselves, they probably thought. Did they really think so little of him? He put it out of his mind. 

Remus stood with a furious, soundless snarl on his face, and hurled his parchment into the fire, his dark blue eyes flashing with rage as he watched his title burn.

_An Essay on Recognising, Hunting, and Killing Werewolves_

He had lied. It had everything to do with being a werewolf.

***

Minerva McGonagall paced furiously in front of the two fifth year Gryffindors, her brow furrowed in frustration. She cast a stern look at them, sizing them up for any obvious signs of guilt, but she already knew that she would find none, seeing as how she had dragged these two particular boys into her study on more occasions than she would have liked to recall. Both boys had distinct methods of feigning innocence that they always employed, and usually that was enough to give them a nice, long detention.

"Mr Black, Mr Potter, have you any idea why I've brought you down here?" she asked coolly. They had to have some idea, she knew. She had snatched them out of the corridors almost immediately after she had escaped dealing with the sudden...detonation...in the library. Madam Pince was nearly inconsolable and, while she had eventually managed to relegate the task to Filch, she fully intended to make her charges pay for the precious time she had spent assisting the vulture-woman in her sepulchral restoration of the library.

She had to commend the boy on his even tone, as there were few students in the entire castle (let alone the fifth year) that could lie to her with a straight face and calm voice. His cohort was not so restrained, though perhaps his jittery, madcap enthusiasm was as much a disguise as James's impassiveness. It would be quite fitting, she thought, if they had coordinated their deceit—James Potter and Sirius Black were nothing if not a study in brotherly contrasts. Black was old money and older blood, the heir to the fortune of an entire clan of bigoted and prestigious witches and wizards that had dedicated themselves to the perpetuation of blood purity. Black was the sole exception, it seemed, having stirred an enormous cauldron of trouble when the Sorting Hat had thrown him into Gryffindor. On the other hand, Potter was from a family that, while still pureblood, was widely considered nouveau-riche amongst families like the Blacks and the Malfoys. Had she not personally witnessed the two bonding over Dungbombs and other childish pranks, Minerva would have ruthlessly scorned anyone who so much as hinted that a Potter and a Black would ever be able to cohabitate, let alone become the closest of friends.

"What about you, Mr Black? Is there anything you wish to add to Mr Potter's statement?" she asked sternly.

Black's face split into a wide, toothy grin. "No, ma'am, Professor McGonagall, ma'am," he said enthusiastically. It was quite disconcerting how the boy could disregard all notions of consequence and punishment when his grey eyes took on that manic glint of mischievousness—it was almost as if he were the corporeal incarnation of Hogwarts' resident poltergeist, Peeves.

Minerva felt the colour rise in her cheeks and tried desperately to contain her fury. "Madam Pince seems to recall that you, in particular," she said, levelling a pointed finger at Black, "were looking quite suspicious and highly culpable in the sudden explosion of several Explodo Pellets—which, if memory serves, are banned in Hogwarts."

Potter remained impassive, and Black's face split into an even wider grin than before, which looked nothing short of psychotic on his youthful visage.

"Don't know anything about it, ma'am," they said in unison.

"Of course," she retorted blandly. "You never do. And I suppose you had nothing to do with the inexplicable Rocketry Charm that has, quite conveniently, been reported to be one of your many...tricks of the trade...and had not yet been seen outside the Gryffindor common room?"

"Oh yeah," James said casually. "We saw that. Fine bit of magic, it was. Maybe it was Professor Flitwick—"

"We all know that Professor Flitwick had nothing to do with this, Potter," Minerva said, her face flushing scarlet. "But you _were_ in the library?"

"Well, yes," Black admitted.

"Doing what, pray tell?" Minerva's lips pressed together—she had them both now. They would never admit to being in the library for the purpose of—

"Studying, Professor," Potter said calmly.

"Obviously," Minerva drawled. "While neither of you are anything short of brilliant—"

"Thank you, Professor," Sirius said cheerily.

She raised her voice to drown out Sirius, ignoring him as if he had not spoken at all. "To waste your considerable talents on such juvenile provocations—especially in your fifth year, your OWL year..." Minerva trailed off, clenching her teeth. She did not know what would frustrate her more—if Black and Potter failed their OWLs because they refused to apply themselves, or if they received perfect marks despite their uncanny ability to shun conventional academic preparation.

"Professor," James said calmly, almost regally. His eyelids drooped, and Minerva thought (completely without precedent, she noted disturbingly) that his expression belonged on the face of a stag instead of a fifteen year old boy. "We've been getting good marks in all our lessons...and we didn't have anything to do with that thing on the fifth floor."

Minerva desperately wanted to contradict him, to present some piece of evidence that she had hidden away for this occasion—but she had none. Seething, she nodded. "Fine. Please leave, we've nothing more to discuss."

The boys moved to leave her office, but she could not help but call out—"Potter," she said firmly. The weedy boy turned, his hazel eyes halfway shirking the stony charade he had maintained throughout her haphazard interrogation. "Good Chasing last weekend—that last goal against Travers was really quite spectacular." She found that she could not resist a thin-lipped smile, though she was certain her eyes remained stern.

"Thank you, Professor," James said, his face breaking out into a smile that, while much smaller than his friend's, certainly dwarfed her own.

***

Remus had been professing hatred a terribly large number of things lately, and it was really quite disturbing to the teenage lycanthrope. He knew he still had a good week until the full moon, but it was still possible that his body was reacting badly to the upcoming change—especially considering the other stresses he had been forced to work under lately. Perhaps Professor Kettleburn would know something about it, he thought, but then realised that werewolves were considered Dark creatures, and the only professor qualified to answer _those_ types of questions was Professor Morley. Morley had no love for werewolves, Dark creatures, or anything even slightly off the beaten path of goodness and light—and, as a member of the staff, he knew full well about Remus's condition. Now more than ever, he wished that he could count on James, who could usually be relied upon to utter a series of scathing obscenities regarding the Defence professor.

Fortunately, he did not have to deal with Morley at the moment—only his fellow prefects and the Head Boy and Girl. Of course, most of the other prefects regarded him with surprise and mild distrust—it was well known that he was a friend of James Potter and Sirius Black—so it was not as if this was an entirely pleasant prospect. It was all the worse that prefect meetings were now held as close to curfew as possible, which was supposedly to allow students to maximise their study and revision time—Remus suspected that it had more to do with making sure the prefects were as receptive and pliable as possible to allow the Head Boy and Girl to impart their sinister designs upon them. He stared ahead blankly as the other prefects gave their reports, taking a small amount of solace in the fact that his fellow fifth year Gryffindor prefect, Lily Evans, looked almost as bored as he felt.

"And what of Gryffindor?" asked the Head Girl, an unctuous-voiced Slytherin named Eveline Cathcart. "Present your point deductions, please."

Remus bristled at the commanding condescension in her voice, and gritted his teeth as he looked down at his tally sheet.

_PROFESSOR MORLEY IS A GREAT BIG IDIOT_

This was not helpful. Even the Head Boy—John Mulciber, of Ravenclaw—was now leering at him expectantly. He looked quite like his House's mascot, his beak-like nose and fierce eyes giving him the appearance of an overgrown bird of prey.

"I docked James Potter and Sirius Black twenty each for hexing some fourth years," blurted Lily Evans, her face flustered, "and thirty from Bellatrix Black for cursing a group of second years."

"Well," Cathcart sniffed haughtily. "I've reason to believe that Ms Black was perfectly justified in her hexing."

"All respect," Lily said through clenched teeth. "But I highly doubt that three second years could pose much of an immediate threat to a sixth year—especially one with Black's reputation."

"Really, Evans, are you sure that you're not letting your little grudge against Ms Black's cousin...colour your decisions?" asked Mulciber silkily. It was well known that he pined for Bellatrix Black, even though she seemed to return none of his affection.

Lily flushed even redder, and her voice was discomfortingly shrill when she opened her mouth again. "Just because being a bullying toerag seems to run in the family doesn't mean we should just let it go!"

"So you admit it!" Cathcart crowed victoriously. "You've been unfairly persecuting Bellatrix Black—"

"I don't think anyone could _persecute_ a Black," Remus muttered unkindly.

"You stay out of this, Lupin. I've half a mind to report you to Dumbledore for dereliction of duty," hissed Mulciber.

"Why don't you just try it," Remus growled, his temper flaring.

"Look, if she doesn't want to lose points, she shouldn't be hexing second years!" Lily yelled.

"They cheeked her!" shrieked Cathcart. "You would've done the same—or do you think we don't _know_ about you and James Potter!"

"Excuse me?" Lily spat indignantly, rising from her chair so fast she knocked it off its legs. It fell to the ground with a loud clatter. "What about me and that smarmy git?"

By now, the prefect meeting had divided itself swiftly into two sides: those who supported Remus and Lily—there were only two of these; a fifth year Hufflepuff named Benjy Fenwick and, surprisingly, a Slytherin sixth year named Emmeline Vance—and those who threw in with the Head Boy and Girl, also known as the rest of the lot.

"You think we don't notice things, Evans?" shrieked Cathcart. "You've been hanging round his mate Lupin a bit too often—"

"Right, you know, because that mangy Lupin isn't _right here_ ," Remus muttered darkly.

"And he's been attacking Slytherins since the moment he set foot in the castle!"

"Yeah," Lily said angrily. "And I've been taking points from him ever since I got my badge!"

"Come off it," Cathcart spat. "I know you've thrown in with him and his lot—that's why you've only been taking points in increments of fifteen, while you seem to delight in taking twenty, thirty, or even forty from Slytherins who have oh-so-conveniently crossed Mr Potter!"

"You're mad," Lily said dismissively. "Absolutely barking."

"She's right, Evans," said Mulciber. "By and large, you've taken more points from Slytherin than from any other House."

"It's not my fault if they break the rules more often!"

"Well, Black and Potter—"

"If I had any _proof_ , do you think I'd hesitate to dock them into oblivion?"

"I think you would," shrieked Cathcart. "After all, they are your Housemates!"

"They're slimy prats!"

"They're my best friends!" Remus roared, and the entire prefect fleet turned to stare at him with wide-eyed disbelief. No one had seen Remus Lupin this angry before, and those who just had were now adamantly wishing that Angry Remus would go back to the hiding place where he had been living for the past five years.

"That shouldn't matter, Remus," Lily said evenly, keeping her temper under control for the first time since she had spoken during the meeting. "If they break the rules—"

"If they break the rules, I'll take points, but if you lot expect me to sit here and listen to you scapegoat them, you're sorely mistaken." Remus was surprising even himself—for someone who felt that his friends had abandoned him, he was certainly risking a great amount to defend them.

"Lupin," growled Mulciber. "Your conduct at this meeting has given me great doubts as to your competency as a prefect—rest assured, I _will_ be reporting this to Dumbledore."

"Then report it, Mulciber," Remus said quietly. "Don't just stand round posturing."

No one moved.

"Remus," Lily began. "You've got to understand that...well, they have a point. Some of the worst troublemakers in the entire castle are sharing a dormitory with a prefect, and you just seem to do nothing about it."

"I refuse to take points for something I did not witness," Remus said firmly.

Cathcart fumed and finally lost what little control she had. "No, you leave that for your silly Mudblood!" she hissed, pointing one painted nail at Lily. This was, in Remus's opinion, the worst possible thing that could have occurred.

It was not that there was an excess of Muggle-born prefects at Hogwarts—quite the contrary, in fact, as there were only two. Like the Wizarding world at large, the majority of Dumbledore's prefects were half-bloods. Appropriately, however, the Head Boy and Girl were both purebloods. Remus was certain that Dumbledore had not meant to make a political statement with his selections—or perhaps he did, as the wizened headmaster often seemed to have layers of disguised intentions—but the fact remained that he had done so. The problem was not rooted in the actual heredity of the prefects as much as it was in their political leanings. Florentina Wimund, of Ravenclaw, was the daughter of a rather prominent member of the Wizengamot, the one who had received a bit of press lately for his controversial snubbing of the Brotherhood for Blood Purity, and she looked distinctly uncomfortable at the sudden slur upon Lily Evans. Lachlan Boot, on the other hand, looked smug and satisfied—he was a Hufflepuff, but his father was deeply imbedded in the pureblood politics of the Wizarding world.

When prefects rose from their seats and started shouting at each other, Remus thought that things might be getting out of hand. When Eveline Cathcart pulled out her wand and pointed it at Lily, however, Remus _knew_ things had gotten well out of hand.

"You pureblood nutter, what're you on about?" shouted Benjy Fenwick, his pointed hat wobbling atop his comically large head. Remus idly noted that he seemed to be the only student who wore the hats they were required to buy before start of term, before clearing the worthless thought from his mind.

"Prejudice!" Cathcart shrieked. "Prejudice from a Gryffindor!"

"Bollocks!" shouted Lily, her youthful face sneering at the elder Slytherin. "You're just angry that I've put Slytherin out of the Inter-house Championship!"

"So you admit it!" roared Rabastan Lestrange, one of the sixth year Slytherin prefects. "You've been out for our noble, _pure_ blood ever since Dumbledore was foolish enough to give you that badge!"

Lily huffed, stepped forward towards Lestrange, and punched his long, warty nose with all the force she could muster. There was a sickening crunching sound as Lestrange's nose imploded with the dainty fist, and blood began to gush from his face.

"Bloody—" Emmeline Vance cut off her exclamation as she rushed to hold Lestrange back, while Remus and Janie Stratton, a Gryffindor sixth year, restrained Lily. Remus looked around—where was the other Gryffindor—

"DETENTION!" bellowed the roaring, furious voice of Professor Horace Slughorn, Head of Slytherin House and Deputy Headmaster. "Forty points from all four Houses—and I'll be speaking with the Headmaster about you lot," he said, pointing at Cathcart and Mulciber. "You two are the Head Boy and Girl—you're supposed to be _dignified_ and _respectful_! Eveline, how can you so disgracefully besmirch your House?"

"Professor—" Cathcart began, but Slughorn waved a podgy hand angrily.

"Not a word! All of you—regardless of House affiliation, prior engagement, personal illness, or fatal cataclysm—shall be given detention with me, to be determined at a later date. This meeting is adjourned. If you did not finish your allotted business, you will simply have to make do," he said, huffing and puffing through his thick, tusk-like moustache. "As you should have thought of that before you went and started brawling like savages! If it hadn't been for young Howell here," he said, indicating the boy at his side—Godwin Howell, the other sixth year Gryffindor prefect. "I suspect you lot would've killed each other! Disgraceful behaviour! Shameful! To your common rooms, all of you! Don't let me catch any of you duelling in the corridors, or it will be straight to the Headmaster for you!"

Still heaving furiously, Slughorn marched out of the meeting room pompously, leaving the prefects to move slowly out into the corridors.

***

"What the fuck is sticking out of my head?" asked James, panicking as he grasped the large things protruding from his head. He, Sirius, and Peter had snuck out of the dormitory under his Invisibility Cloak to visit the Magic Room—a silly name for a room in Hogwarts, but it had been so-named because they had first discovered it in their second year. That had been when they had first seen the after-effects of Remus's transformations, the cuts and gashes and scars that even Madam Pomfrey could not totally heal. That had been when they had decided to become Animagi—thus the room was named as the room to practice their forbidden magic. Now they were almost done, almost there.

"I...I think they're antlers, James," Peter said, awestruck at his friend's success. He himself was not doing so well, even though he thought he could feel something worming around in the seat of his trousers.

"Fuck his antlers, Pete!" shouted Sirius, who was looking at his hands—no, paws, big black paws—with amazement and manic satisfaction. "Look at me! I've got paws!" He smacked them together in an exaggerated clapping motion, though the sound was muted by the pads that covered the underside of his new appendages.

"Should we go to Pomfrey?" asked Peter. "You know, to take them off?"

"Why, so she can turn us in? Oh, brilliant thought, Peter!" drawled Sirius.

"No, Pete, we need to figure out how to reverse this...turning back is half of being an Animagus." James's face scrunched up, his eyes shut tight as he concentrated furiously. Slowly, slowly, the antlers began to retract into his skull. He groaned pitifully as it happened, the feelings making his stomach turn nauseously. Peter winced, and turned back to his own transformation. He would never live it down if James and Sirius managed to fully transform before he managed a physical change of any sort.

He closed his own eyes, and tried to focus on the image of himself transmogrified into the animal that most embodied him—what was it? He was not brave and bold, like a lion, nor was he fiercely loyal like a dog (he was not disloyal, Peter quickly assured himself, but he was not blind either) but what was he...

Then it came. First year, he had stolen eighteen Chocolate Frogs from the trolley witch on the Hogwarts Express going back to London for Christmas hols. He had done it for Remus, who had not yet been dubbed Moony and was looking quite ill—he insisted it was a nasty illness he had contracted, and they had not yet guessed the nature of his absences—and also happened to covet chocolate in any form.

Remus had said it with a broad smile, " _Peter Pettigrew, you thieving little rat!_ "

Peter opened his eyes, and nothing had changed. He sighed and clenched his hands into fists—James and Sirius were staring at him in amazement. His nose and whiskers twitched in frustration.

"What are you staring at?" he squeaked. Squeaked? His hands flew to his face, feeling the slight protrusion and unmistakable whiskers of a rat sprouting off of him.

"Pete..." James said slowly. 

Sirius gaped, not bothering to turn his paws back into human hands. "You're a _rat_?"

"Well...I mean..." Peter stammered, blushing slightly at the rather unflattering animal patron of his spirit. "Oh, bollocks!"

***

Remus turned and walked out of the room, stalking off down the corridors heavily—he decided to take a longer path to the common room, dreading the possibility of encountering James and Sirius or even Peter in the common room upon his return. He did not hear the pattering of lighter feet trailing after him, not until the slight gasping breaths of his pursuer became audible to his ears—which, despite his lycanthropy, were completely normal until the days of the full moon.

"Lupin!" called Lily Evans. "Lupin, will you slow down?"

Remus stiffened and stopped entirely, letting the girl stumble to avoid smashing into his back. Lily recovered her balance and shot a nasty glare at Remus.

"What's your problem?" she asked.

"Don't know what you're talking about, Evans," Remus said dismissively, pointedly not looking at his fellow prefect. Despite his inexplicable decision to support her at the prefect meeting (it was a matter of Gryffindor pride, he supposed—at least until she had started prattling on about James and Sirius), he refused to pretend that the fact that he had to spend hours a week doing various prefect duties with Evans had not somehow influenced the sudden schism between himself and James. It was not entirely unexpected, as James had nurtured quite the fancy for his fellow fifth year prefect since their fourth year, and since then it had grown into an all-consuming creature that could be called sweet—but only by Hagrid, the gamekeeper, who also considered Professor Kettleburn's Bicorn cuddly, despite its appetite for human flesh.

"You're lying, Lupin—and would you please slow down?" she asked exasperatedly, as Remus had engaged in a rather brisk walk that certainly had nothing to do with his adamant desire to not talk to her at this particular juncture.

"Well, if you already know the answer I suppose there's no need to ask, is there?" Remus said, far too coldly for his own liking. But then again, between his friends' sudden abandonment of him and the fact that being a prefect alongside Lily Evans required playing referee even more often than being with James and Sirius did, he thought he had quite a bit of justifiable anger to be withdrawn from his Gringotts vault.

"Look, there's no need to get shirty with me just because your silly friends up and left you, alright? I'm just trying to be friendly!" The sting of her words was palpable, and Remus had had enough. He whirled around, glaring furiously.

Lily Evans was not a whinging girly-girl; this much she had learned from her years living with her sister Petunia. In fact, it was safe to say that very few people intimidated her—she was notorious for cheeking Professor Slughorn when he made comments about where she should have been Sorted, after all, and to retort sharply to a large wizard with a moustache that he could probably gore unruly students upon was a feat that required quite a bit of daring—and the kindly, quiet, studious Remus Lupin had never been counted upon that exceedingly short list. There was not much to fear from ink-stained fingertips and patchy jumpers, after all, even if he was feeling particularly grumpy. Now, however, his face was twisted with a cold, brutal rage that she had never seen before. She could only comprehend by telling herself that it was not her fault.  
"I don't expect someone like _you_ to understand!" Remus bellowed before stomping off out of sight, leaving a very confused Lily Evans to stand and ponder the depth of her own words.

***

Lily stormed away from the site of her confrontation, not really paying attention to where she was going—she certainly did not want to go back to the common room, Slughorn be damned. Someone like her? Someone like _her_? What the hell had that raggedy prick meant by that? It probably was not a purity thing like it was with some people—the Blacks, for example—because she knew for a fact that Lupin was a half-blood. His mum was supposed to be a Muggle or Muggle-born, she had never really bothered to find out.

She had thought that Lupin becoming a prefect would be good for the boy. In her opinion, staying away from Black and Potter did wonders for a person's disposition (despite the fact that much of Gryffindor seemed to be constantly enamoured with the duo), and she had suspected that Remus Lupin would spend less time casting disapproving frowns at his friends and more time honing his own considerable talents if he could simply get away from them. The prefect badge was a perfect opportunity for him to do so—Lily was certain that Dumbledore had seen it as well—yet he seemed to regard the position as more of a curse than a blessing. It was frustrating, to say the least. He had always been quite nice to her, and he had been very kind and courteous during September and October, with the exceptions of those days he spent in the hospital wing after visiting his mum (apparently she was quite ill), which always left him a bit moody. Perhaps he was just agitated, she knew he was going to be visiting his mum again later next week, and it was probably very painful to see his mother in such poor health.

The health of Mrs Lupin was rapidly dashed from her mind as she realised that she was no longer alone in the corridor. She looked round—these were the Potions dungeons, where the Slytherin common room was rumoured to be. If Slughorn caught her down here...especially after curfew, he would have no qualms taking her to Dumbledore, Slug Club membership or not. She had never seen the obese professor so angry before, and she certainly did not wish to see it again.

"Strayed from your nest, little Mudblood?" drawled a slow, thick voice. Lily whirled about to see a tall, dark-haired woman slither gracefully out of a nearby classroom. Her dark eyes fixed Lily with a heavy-lidded stare, and her thick mouth twisted into a small, sinister smile. Lily stood rigidly, recognising at once—

"Bellatrix Black. I'll not ask what you're doing out after curfew—no doubt it's just another night of torturing small animals and killing babies," she said, sniffing derisively at the elder Slytherin girl.

Bellatrix walked—no, glided—forward, cocking her head and regarding Lily as if she were a particularly curious specimen in a zoo. Lily shivered under the sudden scrutiny, and tried desperately not to show it—there was no one down here but her and Bellatrix, and if Bellatrix wanted to hurt her...there was not much she could do to stop her. Lily reached for her wand slowly, grabbing the stick of willow. She eyed Bellatrix's hands, one of which clutched a long wand of ebony wood. Bellatrix was close now, too close for Lily to feel anything but skin-crawling revulsion.

"You'd do well to be careful when speaking to your betters," she cooed, raising one hand to stroke Lily's pale cheek. Lily wanted to vomit, to cry out, but she found herself mesmerised by Bellatrix's half-concealed eyes. "Else one day they'll punish you. Like a wounded puppy, yes?"

Bellatrix shoved her backwards, and before Lily could react, she had raised her wand, words forming in her mouth—

" _Expelliarmus_!" shouted a male voice, and Bellatrix's wand flew out of her hand and back towards the room from which she had emerged, landing neatly in the hand of James Potter. His wand was still aimed at Bellatrix, and he was pointedly not looking at Lily.

Bellatrix turned, fury marring her handsome face. "Potter," she spat. "You shouldn't be—you ought not—you shouldn't meddle in things that do not concern you."

"Corridors aren't exactly safe to walk round after curfew," Potter said evenly. "I thought you'd know that better than most."

"Well then," Lily said angrily, funnelling the sudden feelings of helplessness into her undying loathing of Potter. "I'm glad we've all decided what's good and well, seeing as how I'm the only one allowed to be wandering here after curfew!"

"Don't shout, Evans," said Potter, his hazel eyes still fixed on Bellatrix. "You'll bring a teacher."

"As well I should—you lot have earned detention at least, what with being out of bounds and—"

"You're out of bounds too, Evans. M—Remus told me about that little spat in the prefect meeting. Get out of here, you," he said, jabbing his wand at Bellatrix. "We'll leave if you will. Here—a sign of good faith," he said, and tossed Bellatrix's wand back to her. Lily wanted to slap him—how could he be so stupid as to give her wand _back_!

For a second, Bellatrix gripped the returned wand as if she was ready to fight Potter, but she smiled, bowed her head sanctimoniously, and walked off down the corridor.

"Don't you speak for me, Potter," Lily hissed.

"Right, because I didn't just save your skin," Potter drawled sarcastically, flashing her a wry grin.

"I could've handled it." 

"Yeah, you looked like you were going to handle it when I stepped in—bollocks. You looked like a frightened rabbit. She had you _exactly_ where she wanted you."

"You seem to know an awful lot about her habits," Lily said accusingly.

"Remember who I spend my time with, Evans," Potter said. "Sirius is her cousin. She's bad news." 

"I suppose Remus told you I was down there, then?"

"What, you think I went out of my way to intercept you? Getting quite the big head there, Evans," Potter said, smirking. 

"You should talk, you smarmy git. At least you lot are speaking to him again—you've really hurt him, you know."

Potter glared at her, though he softened his expression forcefully—she still noticed, however. "Don't talk about what you don't understand, Evans," he murmured darkly.

"What do you mean by that, Potter?"

"Nothing," he said finally. They walked through the castle towards the Fat Lady, not saying anything until they reached the corridor of the portrait hole.

"So, if you weren't stalking me—like you usually do, I might add—what were you doing in the dungeons at this hour?" Lily asked, arching an eyebrow at her unwelcome rescuer.

"After that daring rescue," Potter said loudly, as if he had not heard her. He waggled his eyebrows ridiculously—though he probably thought himself quite charming. "I think a date is in order. Want to go to Hogsmeade with me before Christmas hols? I'd say you owe me at least one date. Wouldn't say no to a snog or three behind the greenhouses, though, if Hogsmeade's not your bag."

There was a moment of silence where Lily stared at Potter in shock. She knew full well what he was hinting at—he thought she was _easy_! How _dare_ he!

"You, James Potter," Lily spat furiously, her face reddening at the insinuation, "are a filthy, incorrigible pig. I hope you die! _Gibberwibbet_!" she yelled, delivering a harsh slap to Potter's face as the portrait hole swung open. She climbed through it quickly, storming through the common room and into her dormitory as fast as she could.

Today had taught her nothing except the obvious—James Potter was an enormous, arrogant, perverted scumbag.

And he never answered her question.

***

A week passed, and suddenly the night of the full moon had arrived. Remus Lupin sighed nervously, waiting in the common room and staring as his lap. It was like this every time—wait until sunset, then wait for Madam Pomfrey to retrieve him from the common room. It gave the impression of being taken somewhere, which was what he needed most of the students to believe if he was to carry on his deception for seven full years. He could already tell that this change was going to be a bad one—the feelings of rage and discontentment had not subsided in the week since his explosion at Lily, though he had apologised (sincerely, he thought) and they had been approaching a mutual friendliness since the start of term. Even James, Sirius, and Peter had been talking to him more often, though they would not disclose the nature of their sudden secrecy. It was almost as it had been before...

"Mr Lupin?" asked the soft voice of Madam Pomfrey. He looked up, and the kindly old witch was staring at his indubitably pale face. "It's time to go."

He nodded and followed her out of the common room. The trek to the Whomping Willow was uneventful, as always, and Madam Pomfrey did not try and converse with him. Remus suspected that she took the changes almost as roughly as he himself did, if only because her eyes were rimmed with redness every time he woke up in the hospital wing.

Then they were there—Remus would never get used to how quickly the journey passed when he so dreaded his arrival. Madam Pomfrey took a long stick that she had stashed away for this very event and prodded the knot, freezing the flailing branches of the tree. Remus descended into the tunnel, Madam Pomfrey close behind him. Sombrely, they followed the tunnel to the dilapidated house where he would transform. The villagers called it the Shrieking Shack; Remus had learnt that when he visited Hogsmeade in his third year. It was terrifying to remember that the shrieks were his own.

He sat down on an old couch in the sitting room, one he would certainly gnaw at and scratch when he was not busy gnawing at and scratching himself. Madam Pomfrey looked at him, her lip trembling.

"Is there anything...anything I need to take before...it happens?" she asked. Remus fished out his prefect badge and his wand, handing them to her. He thought for a moment, and then peeled off his jumper. It was a bit patchy, but he was rather attached to the old thing.

"Thank you, Madam Pomfrey," he said quietly, staring at the splintering floorboards. Madam Pomfrey let out a low moan and did something she had never done before. She took the young werewolf up into a hug that he did not have the decency to be embarrassed about.

"Oh, if there was anything—anything I could do," she sobbed, before losing her words to tears.

"I know, Madam Pomfrey," Remus whispered, secretly glad for the embrace. "I'll be alright."

She looked at him, and the words that she so dearly wished to speak remained unsaid.

_"But you shouldn't have to be."_

Remus watched sadly as Madam Pomfrey sealed the exits of the Shrieking Shack, making sure his werewolf form had no means to escape its cage. He had less than an hour before he transformed, he knew, and it was probably best to start—

A sound echoed through the Shrieking Shack, and a low murmur of young voices drifted into his room. Someone—maybe more than one person—had entered the shack. He wanted to cry out, to warn them, but the words stuck in his throat. All he could hope for was that they would turn back before they discovered this room—or better yet, that they did not unseal any of the doors.

" _Alohomora_ ," muttered one of the voices, and the door leading into the shack unlocked itself. Damn. Now three pairs of feet—he could distinguish three separate pairs—were pattering through the house, up the stairs...up towards him.

"Oh God," he whispered. He was doomed—they were doomed—they were all doomed. He would kill the three boys and then he would be expelled, imprisoned, or executed. It would be straight to Azkaban with him, he would be lucky to even get a trial. Actually, he would be lucky to get Azkaban—the Ministry had a habit of executing werewolves who killed normal wizards.

" _Alohomora_ ," the voice said, and it was right outside his door. It sounded so very familiar...

"Hallo, Moony," said James Potter, grinning widely. Beside him, Sirius Black was slipping his wand back into his robes. Peter Pettigrew was stuffing what appeared to be James's Invisibility Cloak into a rucksack.

"What're you three doing here?" Remus asked in disbelief. Did they want to die?

"Oi, Pete, levitate that rucksack onto that nail over there," James said, indicating one of the loose nails near the ceiling.

"We're here for you, Moony," said Sirius cheerily.

"Are you fucking mad?" Remus exploded. "I'm a fucking werewolf! You can't just spend the whole night here! I'll slaughter you!"

"Werewolves are only a danger to humans, Moony," Peter said.

"And you are what exactly?" Remus snarled.

They grinned in unison and disappeared, leaving a stag, a dog, and a rat before him.

"Animagi," Remus whispered, and then the change was upon him.

***

Remus Lupin woke up suddenly, very sore, very tired, and very human. Had the last night been a dream, or had his friends really become Animagi? It had to have been an illusion, a hallucination, a fantasy to explain why they had suddenly abandoned him. He sat up, sighing heavily. He still had another hour before Madam Pomfrey came to retrieve him—she always gave him extra time to collect himself before going to the hospital wing.

"Well, that was fun, wasn't it?" said James, tired and worn but still extraordinarily cheery as he fixed his glasses properly upon his nose. Around the room, Sirius and Peter were gathering themselves much in the same way Remus was.

"Loads of fun, mate," Sirius said.

"The cat's pyjamas!" Peter squeaked. Remus stared at them disbelievingly.

"What...what did you lot do?" Remus asked quietly.

"We became Animagi, Moony," Sirius said. "Thought it was right shit that you had to do this whole werewolf gig alone."

"Been trying since second year, never really got it to work till now," James said casually, as if he had not decided to defy wizarding law at the tender age of twelve.

"Only really mastered it this past week," Peter finished, grinning as widely as Sirius was. Remus almost broke down crying right then—partly for the joy of having such loyal friends, and partly for the shame of having ever doubted them.

"Well," Remus said slowly, desperately trying to contain his feelings. "I suppose I've got to give you all nicknames."

"What?" James asked.

"Remember second year? I became Moony then...now..."

Silence fell over the Marauders, as Remus stood walking between them.

"Moony..." Sirius uttered quietly. The first nickname had been his idea, his little endearment to their lycanthropic friend.

"Wormtail," Remus said, resting a hand on Peter's forehead. Peter smiled, his watery eyes squinting. Remus vaguely remembered chasing the bare-skinned tail through the room during the night. He walked over to Sirius...remembering the battering blows that were only softened by—

"Padfoot," Remus whispered, touching Sirius's head as well. He walked around slowly, remembering the antlers bowed in deference. He reached for James's head, the familiar touch bringing the bespectacled eyes to focus on Remus's own. He spoke, "and Prongs."


	2. The Christmas to End All Christmases

  
Author's notes: The Potter family's annual Christmas party brings cheer and good company to the Wizarding world, but the end of 1975 brings questionable tidings.  


* * *

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

 

**Chapter Two -- The Christmas to End All Christmases**

 

December, 1975

 

"Oi, Padfoot," said James. "What're you doing during hols?"

Sirius, to his great credit, looked up at the first mention of the new moniker—it had taken about a week to get used to the nicknames, but now their usage had become so common he could not remember the last time he had called Peter anything but Wormtail. The baffled stares they drew when one of the Marauders mentioned Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, or Prongs were simply an additional bonus.

"Probably not too much," Sirius replied. "Got to stay out of Mum's way, though. Dad's brother Alphard is visiting."

"You should come out to Stour St Maynard, mate," James said casually. "It'll do you good to get away from your mum."

"Not bloody likely," Sirius barked. "Mum hates Uncle Alphard—won't tell me why—and she's not going to let me skive off to go visit a bunch of blood-traitors."

"So? You're a Marauder. Remember, the first rule of Marauding is that permission is always optional."

"I thought the first rule was to always prank with purpose?"

"Could be," James said, stroking his chin in the manner of a true pseudo-intellectual. "But why don't you sneak out?"

"Mum will do her nut if I fly to Essex in the middle of the night. She'll probably give me the chop, you realise."

"Is that what that great bloody axe is for?" James asked, his face going sheet-white. Sirius nodded ominously.

"That's what happened to my older brother," he said sombrely. "Mum found him snogging a Muggle-born, and pip-pap, off with his head!"

"Bollocks," said Remus, who had emerged from the dormitory staircase and was walking over to his friends, rubbing his sleepy eyes gently. "You haven't got an older brother."

"It was before I met you," Sirius said sulkily. "You never believe me, Moony."

"What was his name, then?" James asked, catching on to Sirius's deception.

"Erm..." Sirius stammered.

"See? Total bollocks, just like I said," Remus said, smirking fondly. "Where's Wormtail?"

"Nicking some food from the kitchens," James said.

"Good show," said Remus. "Could use some right about now. Has he got the Cloak, then?"

"No, Moony," James drawled. "We sent him out naked and alone and totally visible to Mrs Norris."

"Sod off, Prongs. Just because I haven't got such a low opinion of Wormtail's thieving skills—"

"We don't have a low opinion!" Sirius protested.

"Just an accurate one!" James finished.

"Oh, shut it," Remus said nonchalantly. "So Padfoot's with family...what're you doing for hols, Prongs?"

"Bah," James said irritably. "Dad's throwing a soiree. Potter annual Christmas party and all."

"I've heard about those," Sirius said enquiringly. "Is it true that the Minister for Magic makes an appearance every year?"

James nodded. "Yeah, Minister Agar. He's a right prick though—never says three words to me."

"Prongs, you're fifteen—"

"Shut it, I turn sixteen in a week!"

"Fine, you're sixteen. Do you really expect him to notice you?" Remus asked.

"Well, no..."

"Then stop being ridiculous and tell me who else shows up!" insisted Sirius.

"Why don't you just come? I'll write Dad and have him send your family an invitation."

"Oh right, like that'll work. 'Hey Mum, can we go to the Potter's Christmas party? Sure, they're a bunch of sorry blood-traitors, and that boy James is a real smarmy Muggle-lover, but can we?' Because she won't just hex the hell out of me for that."

"Worth a try," James said, ignoring his friend's short-tempered insult. "What're you doing, Moony?"

Remus flushed slightly, and shifted from foot to foot nervously. "Nothing really...no parties, at least. Just a quiet Christmas with Mum and Dad, you know."

"You want to come out to the Hollow?" asked James. "We've never met your dad, you know, but I'm sure my dad won't mind having your family."

"No, no need, thanks," Remus said, staring at the floor. "Dad's not really the party type."

"Are you sure?" James asked kindly, concern evident in his voice. "I mean, I know the full moon is on the twenty-sixth, but you should be fine for the party."

"I'm sure, Prongs," Remus said far more confidently than he felt. "Thanks, though."

"Alright."

"Oi, lads!" shouted Peter, barely managing to keep his edible bounty from toppling out of his arms. "Come help me with this!"

The three Marauders rushed to help their comrade, all thoughts of holidays expunged by the promise of delectable foodstuffs.

***

"Wormtail, if you don't hurry up, we'll miss the train!" shouted James as he waved his wand frantically at the messy pile of clothes and other things that still littered his portion of the dormitory. They levitated, the arms of shirts and the legs of pants waggling slightly, and stuffed themselves into his trunk. As soon as the last threadbare sock had forced itself into the jumbled mess, the trunk shut and locked itself with a heavy thud. Peter dragged himself out of bed, glaring at James in way that was simultaneously scornful and sleepy.

"I've already packed. Give me five more minutes..." he said, flopping back onto his bed.

"Up, you great lump!" barked Sirius. "Marauders have no time for stragglers and ne'er-do-wells! We are industrious men of industry! Hop to, boyo!"

"Padfoot," Remus said sleepily. "You're the biggest ne'er-do-well of them all. Have you even packed yet?" Remus himself had packed the night before, like Peter had. They did, after all, want to maintain some measure of plausible deniability while James and Sirius wreaked their end of term havoc.

"Prongs will pack my trunk—won't you?" Sirius asked, his eyes pleading with a decidedly insincere simper.

"Not a house-elf," muttered James. "You Blacks—fucking ponces, you are. Pack your own trunk; I've got something to take care of before we leave."

"Not Evans again," Peter moaned from his four-poster. "I thought the Elephant Ear Jinx had taught you a lesson..."

"The workings of a wizard's heart are not swayed by logic, reason, hex, or vexation, my dear Wormtail. You'd best remember that when some fickle witch snatches your heart out of your chest," Remus said sagely.

"No thanks. I rather like my heart where it is, you know."

"Oh, a winsome lass will capture our Wormtail yet, boys," Sirius said in a conspiratorial stage whisper.

"It's not Evans, just so you know," James said abruptly. "Something else."

"Right, mate," Sirius drawled. "We believe you."

James ignored him and strolled out of the common room, dragging his trunk down to where the house-elves would take it to the train, leaving Sirius to pack and Remus to prod Peter out of bed.

"It's Evans," Sirius muttered. "I'll bet my last Galleon."

"I don't think there's such a thing as the Blacks' last Galleon," Remus said airily. "I mean, I was of the impression that they had more money than God."

"Shut it," Sirius muttered darkly. "Half of that's dirty gold, anyway."

"What do you mean?" Peter asked curiously.

"Nothing," Sirius said. "I don't like her."

"Who?"

"Haven't you been paying attention, Wormtail?" Remus asked.

"You mean Evans?"

"Of course I mean Evans. What other bint has Prongs been chasing for a full damned year," Sirius said, scowling.

"I don't see what's wrong with her," Remus said mildly.

"You wouldn't," said Sirius.

"Well, I don't. Lily's a perfectly nice girl—bit uptight, but—"

"Lily, is it?" Peter asked, grinning wryly. "Prongs never gets to call her Lily..."

"Oh, he'll throw a wobbly if he finds out you've been making time with his bird," Sirius said mischievously.

"Shut it, both of you. One, she's not his bird. Two, I'm not making time with her. We're prefects together, that's all."

"That would explain that spat in November."

"Yeah, that lover's spat!" Sirius crowed.

"That's _all_!" Remus insisted. "You lot are hopeless," he said, shaking his head and hauling his trunk down to the common room.

***

James did not rejoin them until they were aboard the Hogwarts Express. He burst into their compartment suddenly; his untidy black hair particularly unkempt and a strange look in his hazel eyes. Sirius, Peter, and Remus looked up, mildly surprised at the sudden intrusion.

"About time you got here, Prongs," said Sirius. "We were beginning to worry about you."

"Really?" asked James, his voice sickeningly sweet. "How lovely." Even his grin was tinged with a bitter saccharine scorn.

"What's wrong with you, mate?" asked Peter. "You look a bit flushed."

"Ran into Snape," James said nonchalantly. The suddenly arrested movement of his hand to his hair was enough for Remus to know he was lying. "Had to hex him once or twice, for good measure. End of term jollies and what not."

"How did it go?" asked Sirius eagerly. Remus tried to hide his disapproval. He had never felt quite the obligation to make Severus Snape's life as miserable as humanly possible, or at least not to the extent that his friends did. Still, he did not speak up—Sirius would tease him mercilessly for being rigid, stodgy Prefect Moony.

"Please, Padfoot," James said with a grin, tossing his friends a handful of sweets from the trolley. "As easy as nicking these."

"You really shouldn't be doing that," Remus said, trying to keep his voice from sounding too disapproving. "Poor lady's just out to make a few Galleons."

"Then she shouldn't charge what she does," Peter said brusquely, but James—to his great credit—looked somewhat guilty.

"You're probably right, Moony. I'll pay her on the way out," he said, shuffling his feet slightly. "S'not like I haven't the gold."

"Cheers, Prongs," Sirius said, unwrapping a Chocolate Frog.

"Yeah, cheers," Remus echoed, though his sentiments were for James's promise and not the sweets.

"Oi, Prongs, I've got your birthday _and_ your Christmas present this year," Peter said proudly. It was almost a Marauder tradition that someone forgot one of James's gifts every year.

"Wonder who it'll be this year..." Sirius mused.

"Probably you, you prat," James said fondly. "Perils of the date, I guess."

"Can't see why your parents decided to shag—"

"I can't hear you!" James yelled, plugging his ears with his fingers. "Not a word!"

"—on the twenty-seventh of March. Aren't they rather old?" Peter enquired. James, however, was in no condition to answer, as he had huddled himself into a ball, shivering slightly.

"I'm becoming a nun," he said gravely.

"You'll let poor Evans down, you know," Sirius said wisely. "She'll be jealous of the other nuns—but you'll look quite dashing in a habit..."

Sirius suddenly found himself pelted by sweets hurled from every direction.

***

"Bollocks to prefect duties," Lily muttered irritably as she patrolled the corridor. She knew quite well that she had been given extra patrol shifts on the train because of what had happened between Eveline Cathcart and herself. Even Professor Slughorn had not forgotten it, though it had not stopped him from inviting her to the latest Slug Club party. He had simply started referring to her as "that cheeky Miss Evans" or some variation of that moniker. Adding to her poor mood, however, was her imminent return to Muggle Surrey. It was not that she disliked her parents—in fact, she loved them dearly and was very grateful that they had decided to support her during her time at Hogwarts. It remained, however, that there were certain facts she had to gloss over in order to maintain that support, especially when those facts were in regards to the sudden deaths of Muggles and Muggle-born wizards. There was supposed to be a rising Dark Arts cult somewhere in England, but no one had really spoken of it beyond the murders—which were increasing in frequency.

Lily supposed that it was a bit unfair to react to Potter, Black, Pettigrew, and Lupin (he was back with that crowd again, she noted with disappointment) as harshly as she did when she passed their compartment. She was already in an ill temper, having broken up a fight between a third year, a Gryffindor named Kingsley Shacklebolt, and a fourth year, a Slytherin who turned out to be none other than Regulus Black—single-handedly. Part of that rested on Lupin's shoulders, as he had suddenly decided to shirk his duties in favour of fooling about with his friends. She stormed into their compartment, fury in her emerald green eyes, to see Pettigrew tossing Chocolate Frogs into the air, and Black making them explode with a careless wave of his long, ebony wand. She noted idly that all the Blacks seemed to have wands of ebony, but it did not quell her fury.

"You lot! You're not supposed to be doing magic on the train!" she yelled. The quartet regarded her coolly, and Potter and Black's owls squawked at her violently.

"Lighten up, Evans," Potter said carelessly, though she was certain his voice was now far less boyish than it had been with his friends.

"Yeah, Evans," Pettigrew echoed squeakily. "Lighten up!"

"I'll be speaking to Professor McGonagall about this, you know," she said through gritted teeth. "She'll straighten you out."

"I'm sure," Black drawled.

"Lupin, you of all people should be telling them off—you've got that badge for a reason!" she shouted angrily, growing more and more flustered by her fellow prefect's indifference.

Lupin merely shrugged. "I don't really see the harm in it, Evans," he said mildly. "Just a spot of harmless magic. Besides, it'll probably help them with their OWLs." She noted disapprovingly that she was "Evans" when his friends were around and "Lily" when they were fulfilling their prefect obligations.

"That's right," Potter said sanctimoniously. "And you know us; we'll need all the help we can get. You know, being such lazy prigs and general louts, that is. Of course, if you wouldn't mind helping me...with a little... _private_ tutoring, I wouldn't have to do these spots of harmless magic."

"Pig!" she snarled, and stormed out of the compartment, barely hearing Black's "Bad luck" upon her exit.

***

The train pulled into King's Cross far too soon for Sirius, and as they disembarked he gave his friends a doleful glance—but only when they were not looking. He was, after all, the vicious, mischievous Padfoot, and emotions were for weaker men.

"Write me often, alright?" insisted Peter as he went to join his parents, the squat Mrs Pettigrew and the tall, feline Mr Pettigrew. They murmured their assent, still a bit wary at being separated after the emergence of their newfound bond.

"Jamie!" shouted a high-pitched, feminine voice, and a woman whose hair had turned almost entirely grey rushed to embrace James.

"Hullo, Mrs Potter," Remus and Sirius chanted in unison. Behind the woman, a man stood, his squat form very visible in the crowd. He smiled and adjusted his monocle, perhaps to better mesh with his loosely-buttoned oxford-cloth shirt and his typically mussed Potter hair—white-grey instead of black, like his son's, and much closer to his scalp.

"James, son," Edmund Potter said, smiling at the boys and stroking his moustache. "Remus, Sirius," he said, greeting them in turn.

"Hello, Mr Potter," Sirius said respectfully—it had none of the simpering superiority that Sirius seemed to reserve for all other adults.

"How've you been, Sirius?" Mr Potter asked, shaking Sirius's hand. "Hard at work, I suppose."

"Oh, definitely," Sirius said insistently. Remus gaped at him, and Mr Potter let out a hearty guffaw.

"Son, if I could count the letters I've received from Professor McGonagall about the two of you, I'd land a job at Gringotts."

"Yeah, we're a bunch of professional yobbos," James said, smiling broadly at his father.

"Well, you'd best buck up and study, young man! We'll not have you failing your OWLs with that attitude," Mrs Potter said sternly.

"Yes, Mum," James said. "Remus is a prefect, so we'll study some, at least."

"I suppose that's all we can ask for, Eleanor, dear," Mr Potter said with a broad wink to the three of them. It was plainly obvious which parent had given James his Invisibility Cloak. "But we'd best be off—preparations and all."

"For the Christmas party?" James asked.

"Well, that too," Mr Potter said. "But we're having the Vances for dinner tonight—Emmeline is a prefect too, you know. I suppose you'd know her, Remus."

"I do, Mr Potter, but not well," Remus said.

"Ah, well...she's a nice lass—we've been hoping she and Jamie will...well, you know," Mrs Potter said, and James blushed fiercely.

"Muuum!"

"Right then," Mr Potter said loudly. "We're off!" He swiftly guided his wife and son to the Floo Station, leaving Remus and Sirius alone.

"Good people, the Potters," Sirius said fondly.

"Yeah," Remus said. "Never really met them before, though. I was surprised they were that friendly."

Sirius chuckled. "You really haven't met them, then. Besides, James will have told them all about you—not _everything_ , obviously, but you understand—he's a good son like that."

"And you're not?"

Sirius's face clouded over suddenly. "No...you could say I'm the worst son the Blacks have ever known."

"Sirius!" shouted a cold, clipped, stern voice. Sirius cast one final glance at his friend, and dragged his trunk over to a handsome, formally-dressed couple standing off to one side of the platform—Remus noticed that they were only standing with families dressed in similar raiment. Purebloods, Remus realised. Sirius joined a boy who had the same hair as Sirius, only cut shorter, and was also sporting hex marks all over his face.

"Who hexed you?" Sirius growled to the boy. Remus realised it was his brother, Regulus.

"A filthy half-blood—a Gryffindor, Shacklebolt," the boy said haughtily, sniffing derisively.

"Good for Kingsley," Sirius muttered, barely audible as he joined his parents.

"Remus!" shouted his father, Romulus Lupin, who was smiling broadly though his thick, coarse, black beard.

"Da!" Remus yelled back, dragging his trunk up to his father. "Where's Mum?"

"She's at home, making dinner—we're having your favourite," his father said with a grin. Remus hugged his father, who returned the embrace quickly. "Come on now, we don't want to be late. Venison is terrible when it's cold."

His father threw an arm around Remus's shoulder and guided him off towards the Floo, while Remus thought of James's Animagus form and could not resist a snicker.

***

One week later, James decided that dress robes were simply not on. He was standing rigidly in the parlour of the Potter family home, watching several gaggles of mildly famous witches and wizards pass by. Sirius and Remus had not shown up, even though their families had been invited, which meant that he was the only Gryffindor in his year attending the soiree.

"'Scuse me, lad, but could ye send me in the general direction of the Firewhiskey?" asked a swaying, broad-shouldered man with long, dirty blonde hair and a matching beard. His eyes seemed to be sizing James up, despite his apparent intoxication.

"Well, sir," James said diplomatically. "I don't know if we have any..." he trailed off, noticing the mischievous gleam in the man's eyes. It reminded him of Sirius, and if his friend could not be here, why not try and duplicate him in another? "Actually, I think we've some stashed away in a cupboard."

"Good boy!" the man said cheerily. "Fetch it for me, will you?"

James nodded and scoured one of his father's liquor cabinets, finding a bottle of Odgen's Old Firewhiskey wedged carefully between two bottles of elf-made wine, both of dubious vintage. He hurriedly took the bottle back to the man, who was twiddling the silver clasp on his black dress robes. The robes were oddly devoid of ruffles or other unnecessary additions.

"Here you go, sir," James said, pouring the liquid into a glass for the guest. The guest sniffed at the glass for a moment before quaffing the contents in one go.

"That's the ticket, lad. What's your name, by the way? You didn't say earlier..."

"James Potter, sir," James said, shaking the man's outstretched hand.

"Potter? Edmund Potter's boy? This your father's bash, boyo?" the man asked enquiringly.

"Yes, sir, it is," James said, nodding.

"Ah, Eddie's a good man, you know. Best father a boy could ask for! Wish he were me own, on some occasions!" he said lyrically, and his swaying grew more pronounced.

"Mr Woodsbury! There you are!" shouted a man with a bottlebrush moustache. His dark hair was grey at the roots, as if stress had prematurely changed its colour. "What're you drinking?" he asked exasperatedly, as if Mr Woodsbury was a particularly slow child. The man seemed to have little respect or regard for Mr Woodsbury, who was ignoring him.

"Leave him be," growled a wizened old wizard with greyer hair and a long, beaky nose. Wherever his speech was directed, however, his beady black eyes were fixed firmly on James. "Eurig could use a good drink every once in a while."

"Every once in a while is turning into fairly regularly, Alastor, and you know it—and this is disregarding the fact that he is abusing alcohol in front of a boy who is _obviously_ not of age, yet. He's probably just a student!" the moustached man said brusquely.

"Calm down, Crouch," Alastor muttered. "I'm sure the boy's had his fair share of Firewhiskey before. What are you, boy," he said to James. "A sixth year? Seventh year?"

"Fifth year, actually," James said deferentially. The aura of dangerous experience that surrounded Alastor commanded a great deal of respect. "But I'm almost sixteen."

"You've had Firewhiskey before, haven't you?" Alastor asked gruffly. James hesitated before he spoke—but there was no need. "Don't worry, boy, I'm not about to grass on you for Firewhiskey. We've got bigger things to worry about, these days—"

"Alastor! You shouldn't be frightening children with unsubstantiated stories of—"

"Shut it, Crouch," Alastor growled, and he suddenly looked very familiar to James. "It's not like he won't be dealing with it soon enough. But the boy's obviously tried it."

"Moody," James said breathlessly.

"What?" asked Alastor and Crouch in unison. James pointed a finger at Alastor.

"You're Alastor Moody—the Auror!"

Moody tried to force his face into a scowl, but he could not suppress a brief look of pleasure at someone recognising him. "You've a good eye, boy."

"Of course he does, Alastor," Crouch muttered. "You've only been on the front page of the _Daily Prophet_ eight times since September."

"For catching those Dark wizards!" James said excitedly.

"Right you are, my boy," Moody said with gruff fondness—though something in his dark eyes was clouded, as if there was an untruth in James's words that he was not aware of.

"I," Crouch said pompously, "am Bartemius Crouch, senior, Head of the Larceny and Other Criminal Acts Office at the Ministry. You might know my son, Barty Crouch, junior?"

"Can't say that I do, sir," James said.

"He's a fourth year—a Hufflepuff, I'm afraid. You'll of course be in Gryffindor, like your father."

"An' I'm Eurig Woodsbury!" bellowed the blonde-haired man, who had taken the Firewhiskey bottle and was now thoroughly drunk. "Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement!"

"That you are," Moody said as Crouch began steering Woodsbury away from the parlour. "Potter, eh? I'll be talking to Dumbledore about you...and I'll leave out the Firewhiskey." Moody walked off and vanished into the crowd.

James decided to walk about the house for a bit—it was certainly better than standing in the parlour. As he walked, he spotted a leonine man with the same sort of wire-rimmed spectacles that he himself was wearing. He looked to be maybe seven years older than James, but the nervous look in his face—the look of a caged lion—gave him away as another Auror.

"Nice specs," James said, giving the Auror a thumbs-up. The man looked at him, startled, but did not reply. James leaned closer to him. "Try not to be so obvious, mate. Looking like you expect a Dark wizard raid in the middle of a party just attracts more attention."

"Clear off," the man growled—apparently trying to emulate Moody, with little success. James acquiesced, walking off towards the kitchen with the intention of swiping a plate of starters. He found another person with the same intentions, a tall girl in forest-green robes who was peering at a plate of canapés with relish.

"Thought I'd find you in here," James said, smirking slightly. The witch turned around—she was only a year older than James, but she carried herself with such regal propriety that she might as well have been twenty years his senior. She brushed back her long, brown hair and gave James a smile with her thin mouth.

"Bollocks," said Emmeline Vance. "You just wanted some canapés."

"I will not deny that the delectable hors d'oeuvres influenced my choice of destination," James said slyly. "But you cannot prove a thing." Out of nowhere, he gave a low, sweeping bow of deference. "Oh, my maiden so pure of blood, so green of raiment, so bountiful of b—"  
"Don't you finish that sentence, James Potter," she said menacingly, though a smile lingered on her face. She extended the tray of starters. "Have a canapé, instead."

James took the offered food and popped it into his mouth. "How's the only Slytherin worth knowing?" he asked.

"You Gryffindors," she said with mock disdain. "No wonder your fifth year prefects are a bunch of mangy savages."

"What, you mean Remus and Evans?" he asked, careful not to use Remus's nickname—Emmeline was far too clever not to discern Remus's lycanthropy if she was given such an obvious hint.

"I suppose you've already heard that our last meeting in November turned into a brawl," she drawled.

"Wasn't their fault, Emmeline," James said honestly.

"You're just saying that because you want to get into Evans's knickers," she teased.

"True—but irrelevant," James said.

"Ooh, James," Emmeline cooed. "I love it when you talk barrister to me. Father would be so happy..."

James flushed, but continued anyway. "That notwithstanding, you have to admit that Mulciber and Cathcart provoked them."

"Well, it's not as if that'll be the last time," she said darkly. "It's not exactly a good time to be a half-blood, let alone a Muggle-born."

"You mean the murders?" James asked, keeping his voice at a whisper.

"That's right. You know all those catches Moody's been making—Alastor Moody, the Auror. He's here, I think—"

"Yeah, I met him. What about the catches?"

"Dad says they're publicity stunts—fakes. He says they're supposed to keep the population thinking that there's no one group behind the murders."

"But there is?"

"What do you know about the killings?" Emmeline asked, her eyes darting nervously to the kitchen entrance.

"It's always Muggles, isn't it? Usually they get...you know, the Killing Curse—but sometimes they get tortured first..."

"That's right. _Cruciatus_. Nobody magical has died yet, but they got—well, do you know the Prewetts? Gideon and Fabian left school last year...they have a sister, Molly. She married that Weasley bloke, settled down in Ottery St Catchpole. Well, the Prewetts have these Squib relations in Kent—way back, mind you, so they're right Muggles now. The Prewetts' second cousins, I think. Anyway, the whole family was murdered—except for the son, second cousin twice removed—I could be wrong about that, though, I always get confused with family trees. Some pureblood I am. Had a big screaming row about it with Molly, though. Poor lad split off from the rest of the family, and they haven't heard from him since."

"So you're saying that this Muggle Prewett got snuffed by...whatever has been snuffing all these Muggles?"

"Right, and the Prewett is the closest they've come to killing a wizard."

"They?"

"Alright," Emmeline said. "This is where the story gets a bit...odd. Back when my dad was with Barclay and Ballard, he had a reputation for Advocating some dodgy characters—"

"Dodgy like Dung Fletcher or dodgy like..." James trailed off.

"Dodgy like the Princes," Emmeline said grimly. "Glad their lot died out. Arcturus Prince disowned his daughter for marrying a Muggle—never caught his name, though. I wanted to send a card. Or a few thousand Galleons."

"Anyway, your dad was with Barclay and Ballard..."

"Yeah, while he was there, he was approached by an old schoolmate of his—this was back in fifty-five, mind you, so the post-Grindelwald celebration had worn off and everyone was worried about the Unity Society for Sorcery Revelation, those lads that tried to unite the Muggle and Wizarding worlds. Anyway, this old schoolmate, Antonin Dolohov, came up to him and asked him if he wouldn't consider lobbying to the Wizengamot on behalf of an organisation he had joined."

"What was it?" James asked.

"No idea—Dad wouldn't tell me the name. He said it was one of those pureblood pride groups, you see them more and more nowadays. Golden Road, Path to Power, Brotherhood for Blood Purity, the names are different but the goals are always the same."

"Out with the Muggle-borns, in with the purebloods?"

"Got it in one. So Dad turns him down, and Dolohov leaves—says something about this brewing since they were at Hogwarts together. Dad does a little digging..."

"What does he find?"

"Well, old Armando Dippet—Headmaster before Dumbledore, you great lout. Binns would have killed you twice over by now; you realise—had just retired, so the records during his tenure were public, but since Dolohov was a fairly unremarkable person..."

"There wasn't much to find."

"Exactly. But he asked around, wrote Dumbledore about it...and got a list of Dolohov's old cronies." 

"Who was on it?"

"Check the old members of those pureblood activist groups—all the higher-ups are from that gang. Dad remembered them from Hogwarts; they used to follow a boy named Tom Riddle."

"Tom Riddle? Odd name for a pureblood."

"I know—no record of the Riddles as far as any of the old wizarding genealogies, or so my dad said. But Riddle's not important here."

"Why not?"

"Tom Riddle disappeared in nineteen forty-seven—they probably killed him because they thought he was a half-blood or something like that. Since then, they've got a new leader of their little gang."

"Who?"

"No one really knows, but he calls himself Lord Voldemort."

"That's a stupid name," James scoffed. "Sounds fucking French."

"Yeah, well, no one likes to mention him by name. Say You-Know-Who, if you have to talk about it at all."

"But this Vold—You-Know-Who, he's the one killing all the Muggles?"

"That's what Dad thinks—You-Know-Who and his followers. Your dad believes it, too, he was at Hogwarts when all of this was happening, but he was in Gryffindor."

"I'll ask him about it," James said.

"You should—I think he's upstairs in his study."

"Cheers, Emmeline," James said, beginning to walk out of the kitchen.

"James," Emmeline called out, drawing the black-haired boy's attention back to her. "I've heard some rumours...about you and—"

"They're false," James said firmly, an uncharacteristically hard look in his hazel eyes.

"But—"

"False, Emmeline. Or don't you trust me?" He walked out of the kitchen without another word, leaving Emmeline with the canapés. 

"It's not you I don't trust, James...it's her," she murmured, so quietly that even if the canapés had had ears, they could not have heard her.

***

"Open it, Remus," Moira Lupin said, smiling widely at her son. The fifteen year old werewolf was clutching a large parcel, wrapped in bright red paper with a golden ribbon—Gryffindor colours, they had said, for their favourite Gryffindor. Remus grinned back at them, his eyes bright with glee. This Christmas had been better than any before it—and not just because his friends had recently become Animagi for him. James had sent him a top-of-the-range lunascope, with a note reading _Just in case_. Sirius had given him a book (as he had for every Christmas and birthday since they had become friends) entitled _Wizarding Establishment of Dubious Reputation and Notorious Criminality_ , and Peter had given him a strange shrunken head that could revise probable OWL questions—he had no idea what his parents might have given him, but he was certainly eager to find out.He tore into the paper, though he was careful to open it along the folds. As careful as he was, however, he could not help but tear it in several places. Under the paper was a big leather box, which Remus deftly opened.

"I know it isn't much," his father said quickly. "But your mother and I thought that—well, since we couldn't aff—arrange to commission a wizarding portrait; we might as well give you the next best thing."

"It's wonderful, Da, really," he said sincerely. What was even better than the gift was the broad smile that split his father's face at his son's delight.

"If you want to charm it with your name," his mum said with an exaggerated wink. "We'll look the other way, just this once."

Remus grinned wider and hefted the contents out of the box, setting it carefully next to him on the threadbare couch. He pulled out his cherry wood wand and aimed it well.

" _Nomense_!" he said, concentrating hard as the words appeared on the back of the casing.

_MOONY'S CAMERA_

***

James crept up the stairs silently, careful not to alert the other guests to his wayward trek—no one was allowed upstairs unless his father brought them up there during the party. He knew his father was in the study, and the large oak door did not intimidate him, even if it was shut tightly. The voice booming from within, however, made him quake like no other voice could.

"What do you mean no evidence?" bellowed his father's voice, loud and furious. "There's plenty of bleeding evidence!"

James moved closer to the door, pressing his ear against the keyhole. The next voice was low, almost hissing—whoever it was, he obviously did not want to be heard.

"Quiet, Edmund! There are people downstairs—people who, may I add, have no idea about this little crusade you would send me on," it said harshly. It sounded formal, regal even, so it was probably some sort of official from the Ministry.

"Crusade? Are you mad, Minister?" his father asked incredulously. James held back a gasp—there was only one man called Minister, and that was Maldwyn Agar, the Minister for Magic. "You accuse me of launching a crusade when there's a Dark Lord killing Muggles and Squibs?"

"There's no proof of—"

"Five years, Minister! In five years, this group has killed twenty-five Muggle families. Twenty-five! And the only reason people are starting to talk about it now is because they happened to snuff two Squibs and their kids, that family from Kent!"

"There is no proof that those unfortunate events are in any way related to each other," the Minister said calmly.

"Bollocks!" snarled his father. "You think I haven't seen the reports?"

"I would like to remind you, Edmund," Minister Agar said unctuously, "that Dark Lords are not the only wizards capable of performing _Avada Kedavra_."

"He has followers, you know."

"Name them—if you can."

"Dolohov, Macnair, Rosier, Nott, Yaxley—"

"That is enough, Mr Potter," Agar said in a cold, clipped voice. "I shall not sit here and listen to you accuse your political opponents of Muggle murders and Dark activities."

"Political opponents—what are you on about?"

"Macnair founded the Brotherhood for Blood Purity—which you've spoken out against. Dolohov and Rosier are prominent members of the Path to Power, another blood-pride organisation that you have unsuccessfully tried to legislate against—"

"Only because they've been trying to segregate Muggle-borns," his father said.

"Be that as it may, you must admit that it seems a bit...well, suspicious for you to be decrying the moral evils of some of Potter and Vance Legislative Advocacy's most prominent opposition."

"What—"

"Edmund, I hate to be the one to have to tell you, but...well, you've a reputation in the...societal circles..."

"You mean the pureblood maniacs," Edmund said dismissively.

"This is what I'm talking about, Edmund! Your obvious disdain for our older traditions has marked you!" 

"Marked me?"

"As a Muggle-lover! This is no time to be sticking up for people that would rather burn us than look at us!"

"So you admit that there's a new Dark—"

"Edmund, having reservations about Muggles—and by extension, Muggle-borns—is not purely a Dark enterprise. I myself can see the logic of their arguments, you know, and you would do well to try and see this...heated debate from another point of view."

"I don't need any point of view that claims superiority over another group because of who their parents were," his father growled.

"Edmund, Edmund...there is a rising sentiment that Muggles and their magical ilk are destroying the very fabric of our society...you won't hear me spouting such extremism, but I can see where their point lies...crying Dark Lord whenever you meet this sentiment will win you no friends."

"Well," he barked. "With friends like that, who needs enemies?"

There was a sound of scuffling footsteps, and they drew nearer to the door. James hurriedly leapt back and pressed himself against a wall, trying desperately to look as if he had just arrived.

Maldwyn Agar burst out, his mouth frowning below his drooping moustache. He stalked off past James without glancing at the young wizard. Edmund soon stuck his head outside the door, his white-grey hair in its typical state of Potter unkemptness.

"James?" he asked, surprised to see his son outside the door. "How much did you hear?"

"Nothing, Dad," James lied. "I just came up here."

His father scrutinised him carefully. "Everything, then?"

"Yeah," James said sheepishly. "I'm sorry, I ju—"

"No, no, I shouldn't have shouted. Come in, I ought to explain..."

***

The Pettigrew household never had many callers, especially not on Christmas day. Naturally, it was quite a surprise when a shrill wail from the foyer announced a visitor—and an even greater surprise when Peter's father stood to answer the door, telling his mother that he had been expecting someone. Erebus Pettigrew was not a very sociable fellow, and for him to invite a friend, no matter how old or dear, to his home was unprecedented.

"Abraxas," his father said politely, shaking the hand of the tall, white-haired man who stood in their doorway. "Pleasure to see you again."

"Erebus," the man said, inclining his head slightly and stroking his long beard. "How long has it been? Ten years? Fifteen?"

"Thirteen, at last count," Peter's father said warmly. "You look a bit peaky—have you fallen ill?"

"Bah, just a seasonal irritation," Abraxas said gruffly. "Dulcibella thinks it may be dragon pox, but I think that's codswallop."

"I see," his father said smoothly. "Have you met my son, Peter?" he asked, waving Peter over. Peter quickly responded, scuttling over as fast as he could. It was only after he was standing next to his father that he saw Abraxas's companion, a young man—probably several years older than Peter—with similarly white hair. Peter recognised him vaguely, but could not place him.

"No, I do not believe I have," Abraxas said.

"Ah, introductions it is, then. Peter, this is Abraxas Malfoy, an old friend of mine—he was very high up in the Ministry, before he retired. And this is his son..."

"Lucius," Malfoy's son said, extending a hand out for Peter to shake. "Lucius Malfoy. I was Head Boy when you were a first year."

"Oh!" Peter exclaimed nervously, remembering just what James and Sirius had done to the Head Boy that year. "Well, it's an honour, a pleasure—"

"Peter," his father interrupted. "Why don't you show Lucius the library?"

"Right," Peter squeaked. The library was where his father sent Peter with whomever he did not want overhearing his business on the rare occasions when his father had a business partner at the house. He led Lucius though the narrow corridors of the house, eventually stopping at a room that was stacked high with bookshelves.

"This is your family's library?" Lucius asked.

"Yes," Peter said respectfully—no sense in offending Malfoy, especially if his father had business with the elder Malfoy.

"Impressive," he said, walking regally to a stack of tomes and paging through one of the thicker, darker-coloured ones idly. "Pettigrew...your family is pure, right? I would not expect Father to be associating with...undesirables, but in his old age..."

"Oh, oh right, we're pure," Peter said with a nervous laugh. There was something eerily intimidating in this Malfoy's grey eyes and long hair, and it made Peter squirm with fright. James and Sirius (and probably even Remus) would ridicule him endlessly if they found out. "No undesirables here, no sir!"

"Good," Lucius said, closing the book with a dusty thump. "I remember you from Hogwarts, you know. You ran about with James Potter and Sirius Black—and the half-blood?"

"Moo—Remus? Remus Lupin? Yeah, they're my friends."

"Well, one out of three is not bad, I suppose...for a first year."

"What do you mean?"

"Black. He's the only...well, proper wizard of the group. Pure, I mean."

"James is a pureblood too," Peter said timidly.

"The Potters are barely pureblood—more by circumstance than intention, really."

"He's my best friend, you know," Peter said firmly, more firmly than he thought he could have normally managed.

"Really? I always saw him with Black—more often than with anyone else."

"We're all best friends, all four of us," Peter stated, though his mind was whispering to him—James was his best friend, but he was not James's. __

"Such loyalty is...noble, however misplaced it may be," Lucius said quietly, but there was hideous mirth in his grey eyes, as if he were echoing Peter's very thoughts.

"Well, that's what Gryffindors are."

The unspoken _isn't it_ hung in the air like mildew in a dungeon.

***

Edmund sat across from his son, staring deeply at his bespectacled, hazel eyes—so much like his own—as the younger boy processed all he had heard in the past ten minutes. He seemed to be doing remarkably well, especially with the murders. Almost as if he had—

"Emmeline told me about...about the Prewetts' cousins and the Muggles," James said quietly. "Her dad told her."

Edmund sighed. Crispian Vance had a good heart, and had undoubtedly told Emmeline because he thought it would help her protect herself, but he truly had no idea what "sensitive information" entailed. Then again, maybe Crispian had been right—maybe Edmund had been wrong to keep the rumours of this Dark Lord from James.

"I ought to have expected him to," Edmund said aloud. "But I think I can trust you to keep this between the two of you."

"But Dad..." James said, obviously worried about his friends—and that Muggle-born witch he had become so enamoured of last year.

"No, James. It is very possible that I am wrong, that these are just rumours and falsities, and I will not be responsible—however indirectly—for causing that sort of mass panic."

"But when you were talking to the Minister—"

"When I was speaking with the Minister, I regrettably lost my temper," Edmund said sternly. He took a deep breath before continuing. "He's right, you know—besides the suspicious nature of these murders and the wizards rumoured to be involved, I've got no evidence and neither does Mr Vance."

"But...you think..." James trailed off, not knowing how to phrase his enquiry.

"That there's a Dark wizard behind all of this? Son, I was at school when Grindelwald was rising—this is the same thing again, the same damn thing. No one wants to admit that something might be going on...no one wants to be the boy who cried hippogriff." Edmund shuddered, trying to hide the momentary weakness from his son. He was far too old for this, far too old to be fighting these battles. He was lucky, he knew, to have a son who was willing to take up the cause in his absence—or so his marks in Muggle Studies indicated.

"So this...Volde—"

"Don't say the name, James!" Edmund hissed harshly. "Agar's a right fool about some things, but he's right when he says that a panic is the worst thing that could happen to the Wizarding world."

"You-Know-Who, then...he's the one behind all of this?"

"I think so," Edmund said. "Mr Vance has only heard rumours about him, though. If half of them are true..." he shuddered again. "Did Emmeline mention a Mr Tom Riddle?"

"Yeah—he was at school with you and Mr Vance, right?"

"That's right—Slytherin fifth year prefect when I was a seventh year. Seemed a good sort of chap, but he was known for leading that gang I mentioned—Yaxley and the like."

"What happened, Dad?"

"I've got it on good authority that You-Know-Who murdered Tom Riddle. Never found the body, though—probably got blasted into bits. Riddle was a good wizard, but not...well, not _that_ good. Just goes to show...this You-Know-Who...he can get anyone. I want you to be careful."

"Dad..."

"No, James, listen to me!" Edmund grabbed his son's shoulders. "I know you're good—I know you're an excellent wizard, you're very talented, but there are some things you _can't_ do—that no decent wizard would ever do. He'll do those things, and worse, if you cross him. I want you to promise me that you'll stay safe—don't act rashly. If...if he becomes more prominent, you'll probably hear about students at Hogwarts joining up with him—that's how it was with Grindelwald, and he was German, I can't imagine how bad it'll be with an English one—and I don't want you going after them. I know you hate the Dark Arts, I know that's how we raised you, but promise me you won't do anything rash."

"Dad—"

"Promise me, James!" Edmund yelled, shaking his son roughly—James's eyes were fixed on Edmund's, and there was a look of certain fear in the youth's hazel orbs.

"I promise," James whispered. 

Edmund nodded and drew his son into a hug. "Thank you, son. Thank you. Now, let's go downstairs and see if we can't nick some canapés before Miss Emmeline devours the lot of them."

***

David Smith put his two children to bed early on New Year's Eve, knowing that his wife was going to be working late at the Ministry. He had grown accustomed to the fact that his wife was a witch in their decade of marriage, but going to that Christmas party for that wizard barrister (Peterson? Potter? He was terrible with names) had given him a bit of a shock. At least, he mused gratefully, his wife did not wear hats like Dedalus Diggle. Diggle had seemed a decent sort of bloke, and he had asked the Smiths over for tea (he lived in Kent too, just half an hour's walk from where they themselves resided) next Wednesday. Diggle had heard about the poor Prewetts (apparently there was a fairly well-known wizard family named Prewett, too, and they had been a distant relation of the tragically deceased Prewetts of Kent) and had quietly warned David to keep his children in the house for a couple of weeks—David had thanked him and took his advice.

He looked at his wristwatch—his wife was late, even permitting the recent demands of her job. He brushed it off, thinking that she had probably caught a bad load of paperwork and had to stay at the Ministry until it was completed. He locked and bolted the front door—no sense in being careless, not with this murderer about—and climbed the stairs to his own bedroom.

He had not been in bed five minutes when a crash from the kitchen echoed through the house. He walked downstairs quietly, cursing British gun control laws for the first time in his life as he clutched an old silver candlestick.

Halfway down the stairs, two successive flashes of green light nearly blinded him. He hurried downstairs as fast as his spindly legs would allow him to move, rushing to the children's bedroom. He rammed through the door, staring at the figure looming over his daughter's bed. It was tall, unnaturally tall, and dressed in black robes like the ones he had seen at the Christmas party. The figure looked up, fixing him with cold eyes that had a permanently bloody look to them—or perhaps the irises had turned red. The thing's face was deathly pale, almost bone-white, and its thin-lipped mouth—the lips were so thin that it would not have been an exaggeration to say the creature had no lips—curled into a cruel smile.

"Hello, Muggle," said the thing. It had a cold, high-pitched voice, one that gave David shivers up and down his spine.

"You—you step away from there," David demanded, his voice quavering. "My wife's a witch, and she knows how to take care of blokes like you—"

"Your wife, blood-traitor that she is, has been taken care of already," it said, waving a hand dismissively. "Or are you not David Smith of number eight, Clermont Lane, Dartford, Kent?" The creature—it was a man, he supposed, however disfigured—rattled off the address as if it had been memorised long ago. 

"What do you mean, taken care of?" he asked tremblingly, fearing the worst.

The man let out a high, cruel laugh. "My faithful Death Eaters have disposed of her, Mr Smith, as I have disposed of your ill-blooded kin. Now," he said before David could respond. "Shall we have some tea? I've taken the liberty of putting a pot on—I do so love tea."

"You...you killed my kids?" David made to charge the man with the candlestick, but he lazily pointed a long wand of yew at David, silently bringing him under his control.

_Go to the kitchen..._ his mind said to him, and David complied. Why not? It was rude not to have tea with his unexpected guest. He mechanically walked to the kitchen, where he poured the tea (it was on the stove, just like the guest said it would be) into two cups. The man was already sitting at the table, so serving him was simple.

"Sit, Mr Smith," the man ordered coolly, and David complied. "Do you know who I am?"

"No," David said calmly.

"I wouldn't expect you to—few know of me as I am now, and fewer still dare to speak my name. I know that explaining this to you will be quite useless, you know, but it would be rude of me not to. Proper manner make a proper wizard, or so they say."

"Or so they say," David echoed blankly.

"Where was I? Ah, yes, introductions. I, Mr Smith, am Lord Voldemort, of the ancient house of Gaunt and last remaining heir of Salazar Slytherin. Pleasure to make your acquaintance." Lord Voldemort sipped his tea. 

"Charmed," David said, his eyes still devoid of all humanity.

"Today is the thirty-first of December, Mr Smith. Do you know the significance of that date?"

"No, Lord Voldemort."

"Ah, a shame. I am quite offended, you know, that you did not remember."

"I am sorry, Lord Voldemort."

"I am afraid it is too late for apologises, Mr Smith. Though your tea is excellent, I am afraid rudeness can never be tolerated from someone of your...low breeding." Lord Voldemort stood, rising to his full height. "Goodbye, Mr Smith. _Avada Kedavra_!"

There was a flash of green light, and the corpse of David Smith toppled off his chair. Lord Voldemort walked from the home, regarding the two robed men that waited outside with silent disdain.

"Milord," they said in unison.

"Yaxley, Rosier," he said to the respective Death Eaters. "What is the reason for your delay?"

"The Ministry, sir—" Rosier began.

"—the woman, she put up a fight," Yaxley finished.

"You could not take care of one meagre blood-traitor?" Voldemort asked coldly.

"She was strong, sir, and pureblooded as well," Rosier said.

"I shall deal with your incompetence in time, my Death Eaters. You may depart, but I must remain for a moment...I believe it is time the Wizarding world knows the mark of Lord Voldemort."

Voldemort raised his wand and his underlings Disapparated from the street. " _Morsmordre_!"

As the skull-and-serpent mark shot into the air, hanging bright green above the house where the Smiths had died, Voldemort turned and walked down the street, and anyone foolish enough to come close to the strolling Dark Lord might have heard him singing in a quiet, cold voice.

"Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me..."


	3. Rumours and Whispers

  
Author's notes: The Marauders return to Hogwarts under the shadow of war, Dumbledore discusses the truth about Lord Voldemort with his Heads of Houses, and Defence Against the Dark Arts takes a suitably dark turn.  


* * *

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

 

**Chapter Three -- Rumours and Whispers**

 

January, 1976

 

Abel Campbell met the Ministry official in a dank, dimly-lit pub located in some dingy village in the north of Scotland, three days after Lizzie and David Smith had been murdered in Kent. The man was tall and fat, but his hooded cloak kept the finer points of his identity concealed from the _Daily Prophet_ reporter—still, Abel was certain this was the man he was looking for, if only because of his nervous, cagey demeanour.

"If—if I give you this interview, you'll publish it, right?" squeaked the man nervously. "I mean, the _Prophet_ won't pull the story if the—the Ministry intervenes?"

"Of course not," Abel said soothingly. Of course, he was lying. The _Prophet_ existed to sell itself, and a denouncement of the publication from the Ministry of Magic was bound to drive subscribers to other, safer papers. He had been a freelancer during the Second Wizarding War (most people called it the Grindelwald War, but Abel's memories of those years were far too clear for him to ever engage in retrospective semantics) and vividly remembered moving to France to write for _La Vérité Du Sorcier_ , a resistance paper, after Minister Feilgoode issued an edict barring _Oracle_ reporters from the Ministry of Magic premises, due to their "anti-Ministry attitude during a sensitive time." The _Oracle_ had never recovered, and folded soon after the war—despite generous endorsements from the war's midnight hour hero, Albus Dumbledore.

"So..." the official continued awkwardly, shaking Abel from his memories, "what do you want to know?"

"First of all," Abel said, readying his Quick-Quotes Quill and once again falling into the mindset of a proper reporter, "who is Lord Voldemort?" He had heard the name, of course, in the pub he usually frequented. It had been miraculous that the _Prophet_ had managed to extract enough information from the Auror in charge of investigating the Smith murders to publish its first headline—it had been little more than an obituary laced with insinuations about Dark wizards. Now that the truth was dangerously close to coming out, however, getting information had become more difficult. This official was, quite honestly, his last chance to get the proper evidence before the story was pulled and the _Prophet_ published an official endorsement of the Ministry line—sinister wizards, anti-Muggle sentiment, no evidence of greater organisation, bad apples in the community. In other words, the usual load of tosh. Having heard the name whispered in dark corners (much like the one they were now seated), he did not expect the wizard to squawk loudly and recoil from the table—which was exactly what he did.

"Don't say the name, fool! You-Know-Who—say You-Know-Who!"

Abel had heard this moniker before, as well. It had only begun circulating two days ago, when the Minister for Magic announced that the Ministry would not be referring to the new Dark Lord by name, and that the British magical community should follow their example in not dignifying the murderer by allowing his chosen title to become widely used. Of course, like all well-meant political manoeuvres, this backfired spectacularly—it had loosed a slew of rumours suggesting that the Ministry's refusal to call the Dark Lord by name was not motivated by brave, noble opposition, but because, as the rumour-mongers so delicately put it, the Minister was a great big ninny. The official's reaction seemed to confirm this response.

"Fine, fine...who is You-Know-Who?" Abel corrected himself, feeling a bit foolish. The official sighed in relief, but quickly turned solemn again.

"He's a Dark wizard—well, I expect you already know that—but he's, well, he's _bad_. Like a Dark Lord—like Grindelwald was. But worse."

"Worse?" Abel asked disbelievingly. "Worse than Grindelwald?"

"Yes," the official said darkly. "Grindelwald wanted conquest, wanted to control Wizarding Europe. He Who Must Not Be Named, though...he wants Muggles and Muggle-borns exterminated. Out of the Ministry, out of Hogwarts, out of the wizarding world—I don't think he'll have too much trouble with killing them all if they refuse to leave."

"Why doesn't he attack the Ministry directly if he wants to control their Muggle policies?"

"There are...organisations in the Ministry that support him, support his cause. I'd be willing to bet that a great many of his followers come from those groups."

"Followers?"

"Oh yes, he's got followers—here," the wizard said, setting a thick stack of files on the table between them. "These are records from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement—they have everything the department has ever recorded on his followers. No names, of course, not enough evidence, not that we'll get any—almost all of the suspects are from old, rich families; they have far too much pull with the Ministry for us to ever launch a proper investigation."

Abel took the files gratefully before continuing. "What idea, if any, do you have of You-Know-Who's capabilities?"

"Well," the official said nervously. "We know he can use Unforgivable Curses—his followers, or at least the more powerful ones, probably can too—and we think he has contacts in the Ministry. Lizzie Smith died in a Floo Station in Kent, coming out of a fireplace from the Ministry, so someone had to have known she was leaving—they found her dead in the fireplace itself, so it couldn't have just been someone waiting for her, they had to have known which fire she was coming out of. He'll probably try to recruit Dark creatures, too, Dementors, werewolves, the like."

Abel nodded, but took control of his quill long enough to mark through that quote—suggestions like removing the Dementors from Azkaban and rounding up werewolves to be put in camps were always held in varying stages of silent agreement and public discontentment, and such a statement in his article would only bring the Ministry down on the _Prophet_ faster.

"Is there anything else you would like our readers to know?" Abel asked courteously.

"No," the official stammered, standing up cautiously. "I think that—that's all I've got to say. Thank you, Mr Campbell."

"No, thank you, sir," Abel said sincerely, standing as well. They shook hands briefly and Abel stepped outside to Apparate, rushing to their nearest Owl Post and stuffing the parchment the Quick-Quotes Quill had recorded the interview on into an envelope. He quickly addressed it before sending it off.

_THE DAILY PROPHET_

_182 DIAGON ALLEY_

_LONDON, ENGLAND_

_FOR IMMEDIATE PUBLICATION_

***

Breakfast, according to the ancient (and, Sirius suspected, entirely unfounded) protocols of the House of Black, was a meal eaten in solemn silence. Sirius's father was not one to break with tradition, and anyone who so much as suggested such a deviance to his mother would likely receive a shrill berating that would shame a banshee. His brother would certainly not protest—he was a good little Slytherin, Sirius thought scathingly, and questioning authority was for lesser beings. In fact, the little toerag was eyeing him haughtily behind his sausage, a smirk skirting the edges of his thin mouth. Sirius sneered at him.

"Sirius, Regulus," his father said. "Shall we depart?" It was not a question, and both boys knew it. Still, the image of the Blacks as independent, strong, and forceful wizards had to be maintained, even in the privacy of their own home.

"Is Mother coming with us?" Regulus asked politely.

His father shook his head curtly. "No, she will remain here." He gave no reason for this, and both boys knew better than to ask for one. Their mother had looked increasingly off-colour since they had returned home (Sirius's father and Regulus tended to glare at him as if it were his fault) and had kept mostly to the upper floor of the house. "Come on now, I shan't have you missing the train."

They followed their father, who had insisted on dressing in his most ornate robes (though he had allowed Sirius and Regulus to dress in their simpler and decidedly less embarrassing school robes), to the sitting room—the Floo-connected fireplace was already lit.

"Where are we going?" Sirius asked, though he was afraid he already knew the answer.

"The Golden Key," his father said. Sirius stiffened. The Golden Key was a pureblood society club in the same warded area as Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters—it was perhaps the most common Floo point for the most esteemed of the pure wizarding families (though, as of late, all purebloods were allowed to use it on the days when the Hogwarts Express departed for Hogsmeade). His father picked up a handful of Floo powder and tossed it into the fireplace. "Regulus, you first."

Sirius's brother stepped into the fire. "The Golden Key!" he shouted, before whirling in the flames and disappearing. Sirius stepped forward next, grabbing his own powder.

"The Golden Key!" Sirius shouted, and he was spinning around and around until suddenly he was in a fireplace very different from the one in Grimmauld Place.

Sirius had been in the Golden Key Floo station before, of course—it was how he had always travelled to Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters—and in his experience it was usually a den of cacophonous pomposity and arrogance. Various purity enthusiasts hawked their wares with gusto, shoving relic after relic of ancient wizarding families into the hands of unsuspecting students, while the various wizards discussed popular family standings and, especially as of late, the sudden rise in the number of pro-pureblood political organisations. Sirius had been repulsed by it since the start of his second year—being best friends with the son of the most prominent orators for Muggle and Muggle-born rights had that effect.

This time, however, the Golden Key was quieter than usual. None of the arrogance had diminished, though, but now it was laced with the smug air of satisfaction. Sirius was not a simpleton, he read the _Daily Prophet_ as often as he could get his hands on it (though he had not had time this morning, as his father insisted on an early rise and departure, which certainly did not agree with Sirius's desired amount of sleep), so he knew about the murder of Lizzie and David Smith. The new Dark Lord was not discussed at the Black dinner table, though he and Regulus had spoken of it once in hushed tones. It would stand to reason that these smarmy pricks were gloating over the deaths of a Muggle, a blood-traitor (as Lizzie Smith had been presented in the Black home), and their two tainted spawn.

Sirius clambered to his feet, grabbing the shoulder of Regulus's robes and dragging him to a nearby kiosk, where he snatched a _Daily Prophet_ from the stack sitting atop the counter.

"Oi, lad, that'll be—" the vendor looked Sirius over for a moment, probably noticing the telltale grey eyes and black hair that had first named and then marked the Blacks as Blacks since (so his father claimed) the dawn of wizarding history. "Erm—go on, lad, honour to serve." Sirius nodded curtly and took the paper, walking away with his brother following close behind him. He pretended he could not hear the muttered obscenities flowing fluently from the vendor's uncouth tongue, but he could not help but smile. At least there was _one_ decent person selling his wares in the Golden Key. He glanced over the paper.

EXCLUSIVE: WHAT THE MINISTRY ISN'T TELLING YOU ABOUT "YOU-KNOW-WHO"

As he started to read (apparently it was an interview between the _Prophet_ and some unnamed Ministry official—probably someone trying to remain anonymous, but he seemed to know quite a lot about the state of the Ministry _and_ the Dark Lord) his face twisted. This was why the purebloods were smirking and sneering—their children were going to be attacking Muggle-borns without a second thought, Sirius knew. Of course, Sirius would be there to hex them back, and more violently, as there was not a student at Hogwarts who could duel quite like Sirius Black.

But any thoughts of corridor duels and midnight vengeance against the blood supremacists were stifled by the appearance of his father. The Black house-elves, Bheaste and her offspring Kreacher, were dragging Regulus and Sirius's trunks behind them, and his father observed them shrewdly. Sirius was quick, however, and hid the paper he was reading before his father could notice it. The last thing he wanted now was a political discussion with his father, who would likely throw in with this Voldemort character as soon as possible.

"Come now, boys, we don't want you boarding with the commoners."

Sirius smiled and nodded, but only because he was indulging in a vivid fantasy of how his father would react if he knew one of his best friends was lower than a commoner—he was a werewolf.

***

The front two compartments on the Hogwarts Express were reserved for the prefects, and Remus was sure they would be converting one into a makeshift brig before the Head Boy and Girl were finished speaking. No one had forgotten their November meeting; Cathcart was still glaring murderously at Evans, and Mulciber seemed to regard both Remus and Benjy Fenwick with more disgust than usual. Even Howell was the recipient of several angry glares—Slughorn had forced the prefects to help prepare and clean up after one of his infamous Slug Club parties, and the ones who had been forced to leave after the preparation (most of the prefects had not been inducted into Slughorn's club) had not been happy. Something had put Evans in a foul mood, so she had wedged herself between Emmeline Vance and a Ravenclaw sixth year named Alice Prille, while Remus took an awkward, narrow place between Benjy Fenwick and Florentina Wimund.

"No doubt you've all head about the...incidents during Christmas hols," Mulciber said distractedly, as if he was trying to convince himself that the horrible attacks had never occurred. "They will have an effect on our prefect duties."

"What do you mean?" demanded Rabastan Lestrange, a tall, nervous-looking Slytherin sixth year. "They're not taking our badges, are they?" asked one of the Hufflepuff girls.

"No, they're not seizing our badges," Mulciber said scathingly. "But Dumbledore has acknowledged that the recent incidents will cause tension between students. We shall be responsible for making sure that said tension does not spill over into daily life at Hogwarts."

"So we're just keeping students from hexing each other?" asked Evans.

Mulciber flushed slightly at her simplification—it was obvious that he liked feeling important. "Basically, yes, though I would think that—"

"Basically, Dumbledore's just telling us to do our jobs?" Evans interjected dismissively.

"Well, _some_ of us needed reminders," Cathcart spat, glaring furiously at Evans.

"Now, now, Eveline," Mulciber said hastily—whatever his opinions of the Gryffindor girl, he obviously did not want another brawl between the prefects. "Perhaps we should dismiss the prefects to their patrols."

"Fine," Cathcart said, her haughty airs contrasting sharply with her snarling face. "Go on then, you lot."

Remus stood, contorting his body as not to topple the diminutive Benjy or to jostle Wimund's ample hips. He slipped between the two and darted out of the compartment as swiftly as he could, happy to be free of his fellow prefects' company and extremely grateful to be returning to his real friends. He knew which compartment they were in, of course—they always sat in the same one, and every Hogwarts student knew it as the Marauders' compartment, to be entered only to provide gifts of sweets and Dungbombs at the altar of pranksterism. He glanced around, making sure none of the other prefects could see him so obviously shirking his duties, and slipped into the familiar compartment.

"Moony!" shouted James, grinning widely. Sirius and Peter were otherwise occupied, inspecting the ear of a gangly, bald, black boy—a third year, Remus thought.

"Moony, come look at this!" Sirius said, waving Remus over to the boy's ear. Sirius flicked at something—a large, gold hoop earring, dangling gaudily from a seemingly fresh piercing in the boy's right ear.

"McGonagall will do her nut," Peter said amazedly.

Sirius flicked the earring one more time before leaning back, his arms crossed proudly over his chest. "What charm did you use?"

"No charms!" said the third year excitedly. "My dad's a Muggle and my mum's Muggle-born, so they took me to this Muggle bloke and he used this big needle!"

"A needle?" Sirius said.

"He punched a hole in your ear?" Peter asked, blanching.

"Merlin's dangly parts, did it hurt?"

The boy looked a bit nervous, but responded shakily. "Oh yeah. Loads," he added, convincing Remus of his insincerity. Oh well, the werewolf thought. Better to let the third year impress the famous Marauders than to humiliate him openly.

"You're a brave lad, Kingsley Shacklebolt," Peter said sagely.

"Aye," James concurred. "The Bravest, Boldest, and Most Kick-Arse Thirdie to Ever Stalk the Hallowed Halls of Hogwarts."

"Top form, Shacklebolt," Sirius said proudly.

"Practice on Thursday," James added, nodding at the boy with the air of a particularly proud superior. Shacklebolt nodded eagerly and left, joining a fellow third year—a redhead named Timmy Callahan who had a propensity to lose Gryffindor startling amounts of points for duelling in the corridors.

"Match isn't 'til the end of the month, Prongs," Peter said.

"Buggering Ravenclaw has got Winona Burke for their Seeker—she's a swift one, but if we can get Kingsley's accuracy up, he can knock her off her broom, or at least keep her dodging until Kennard can grab the Snitch."

"D'you think I ought to get one of those?" Sirius asked, speaking to no one in particular.

"One of what, Padfoot?" asked Remus, taking a seat next to Peter.

"An earring—don't you think it'd make me look cool?"

"Make you look like a right twat, more like," James muttered. "Trust me, Pads, you couldn't pull off an earring."

"Besides," Peter added, still a bit pale. "Do you want some Muggle punching holes in your ear with a great big needle?"

"Well, it'd just be the one, Wormtail..."

"One's more than enough for me—I'll stick to hats to augment my coolness."

"Hope they're not your mum's hats, mate," Remus said. "Saw her on the platform--she's got quite a taste for bloody goblin helms, hasn't she?"

"Don't have a go at my mum!" Peter insisted, flushing a violent shade of scarlet that clashed violently with his mousy hair.

"Calm down, Wormtail," Sirius said dismissively. "Not like he's lying."

Peter huffed and glared, but did not speak further.

"How were hols, Padfoot?" Remus asked, desperate for the silence to end.

"Hah," Sirius barked. "Uncle Alphard came for Christmas dinner—Mum had a fit because he wouldn't put out his fags while he was eating."

"So he just left them burning on the table?" Remus asked, intrigued.

"Nah, he actually smoked them while he was eating." Sirius let out a short laugh. "You haven't lived until you've seen a wizard smoke a cigarette while eating mutton."

"Sounds brilliant, Pads," James said absentmindedly.

"What about you, Prongs?" Remus asked. "How was that party?"

James's eyes darted from side to side—there was no sense in keeping the secret now, not since the _Prophet_ had published the headline EVIL IN OUR MIDST: RUMOURED DARK LORD KILLS FOUR IN KENT two days ago. He quietly enlightened his friends with what he had heard from Emmeline and his father.

"Fucking Slytherins," Sirius said disgustedly. "Shouldn't be surprised."

"Emmeline is a Slytherin too, Padfoot," James said. "So was her dad. They're not a bad lot, the Vances."

"Oh yeah, the Vances," Sirius snorted. "One family, out of how many?"

"Padfoot has a point," Peter squeaked. "One good family doesn't make up for all the bad ones."

"Yeah, but your family's full of Slytherins too, Padfoot," James said.

"Case and point, mate," Sirius said darkly. "Did you hear my mum's cousin Araminta tried to force another Muggle-hunting bill through the Ministry?"

"Was she at your house too?" Peter asked.

"Nah, Uncle Alphard can't stand her—feeling is mutual, from what I've seen."

"One day, Padfoot, you're going to have to let us meet this illustrious family of yours," James said loftily.

"Not if I can help it," Sirius said, scowling at the rapidly passing Scottish landscape.

"Erm..." Peter began awkwardly. "D'you think...d'you think any of your family are in with this...this..."

"Voldemort?" Sirius said boldly, and Peter flinched.

"...Yeah," Peter finished lamely.

"Not yet," Sirius barked. "Wouldn't surprise me if they were, though. Twenty Galleons that Bellatrix throws in with him as soon as she leaves school."

"Are we presuming she sits her NEWTs?" Remus asked.

"No, I think she'll skive off exams to kill Muggles."

"I'll take the bet," James said, his voice sounding distinctly odd, but perhaps it was out of consideration for just how much he was betting on Sirius's cousin's choice of lifestyle. "Twenty Galleons?"

"Twenty it is, Prongs," Sirius said, grinning wryly. "Twenty Galleons that Bellatrix will join up with this You-Know-Who bloke," (for Peter had been about to flinch again) "less than a week after she leaves Hogwarts."

"Fine," James said, shaking Sirius's hand.

"Why do you reckon he went after the Smiths?" Remus asked.

"You saw the _Prophet_ , right? The father was a Muggle—two kids might've been Squibs, they hadn't shown magic yet—"

"They were five and seven," Sirius growled. "They had years to show."

"I'm not saying it was right," James snapped. "Lizzie Smith's maiden name was Crouch, you know."

"I thought you said it was one of those pureblood pride groups," Remus said. "Why'd they kill another pureblood?"

"Blood-treason," Sirius snarled. "A Dirty and Most Ignoble Crime to be Prosecuted with Extreme Prejudice."

"Pun intended, I suppose," James said disdainfully.

"So he's definitely after Muggles and Muggle-borns?" Remus asked, fretfully remembering his mother.

"Seems like it," Sirius said.

"Can we talk about something else?" Peter asked nervously, his eyes darting between his friends and the compartment door. "Anything else? I hate all this...bad talk."

"Sure, Pete," James said kindly, though it was obvious that Sirius was trying not to scoff.

***

The headmaster's office was uncomfortably silent as the four Heads of Houses filed in, each taking one of the four seats in front of Dumbledore's polished mahogany desk. The wizened headmaster observed them silently—Pomona Sprout, with her flyaway greying hair and her nervous glances at her fellow Heads, Horace Slughorn, fretful and guilty-looking, feeling the shame of Slytherin House more acutely than he had ever felt it before, Minerva McGonagall, prim and sharp, aware of the hard path before them, and Filius Flitwick, willing to do whatever it took to hold them all together.

"I have called you here in your capacity as Heads of Houses," Dumbledore began softly, looking at his trusted employees through his half-moon spectacles, "to inform you that one of Hogwarts' former pupils has committed a string of murders."

"You mean this He Who Must Not Be Named character?" Minerva said sharply. Dumbledore nodded—Minerva had been a contemporary of Lord Voldemort, but she had not instructed him.

"Yes. You would have known him by another name, of course—we all would have, but I daresay that...some of us have heard this alias before."

Horace, albeit unintentionally, made a great show of trying to shrink into the cushions of his chair. Filius nodded, but Pomona still looked quite baffled.

"Horace," said Filius croakily, "perhaps you ought to tell us just what became of Tom Marvolo Riddle."

"Tom Riddle? Wasn't he Head Boy? He received the Award for Special Services to the School the year after my seventh, didn't he?" Minerva said abruptly. "I'd heard he died."

"I swear upon my mother's grave, Albus, I did not know—I could not have known—"

"No one here blames you, Horace," Dumbledore said calmly. "I believe young Tom had us all fooled at some point."

"There, Horace, he was one of my favourites too...if I had only known..."

"What are you talking about?" Minerva said shrilly. "Tom Riddle died in nineteen forty-seven!"

"That is quite true, Minerva," Dumbledore said ominously, "from a certain point of view."

"There really isn't much room for debate, Albus—either he's dead or he's alive."

"He's alive," Pomona said calmly. "I never thought Dolohov and Rosier had the gall to kill him, regardless of his parentage, but...I would never have suspected..."

"None of us did," Dumbledore said, ignoring the guilty expression on Horace's face.

"Shall I begin guessing?" Minerva said impatiently.

Horace gave a low moan.

"Tom Riddle is Lord Voldemort," Filius said calmly.

There was a dreadful silence as Minerva paled, remembering the handsome boy that had been so genial.

"Is...is that true, Albus?" she asked. Dumbledore nodded.

"Who knows, Albus?" Filius said, sounding very old.

"As far as I know, just we five—and I suspect his oldest followers are aware as well."

"How...how long has this been going on?" Minerva asked, still shocked by the revelation.

"Five years," Horace said finally. "He returned from the continent five years ago."

"Five—five years?" Minerva spluttered. "And we've done nothing about this until now?"

"I tried, Minerva," Dumbledore said, sounding every one of his one hundred and thirty-one years. "The Ministry of Magic is very skilled at not seeing what it would rather not see."

"Fiends—cowardly fiends, the lot of them," Filius said—it was the angriest that Minerva had ever heard him.

"What are we going to do?" Pomona asked. "Should we tell the students?"

"I doubt that will be avoidable, they will have all heard about the death of the Smiths—the _Daily Prophet_ was quite prolific in its coverage of the attacks."

"Not about the Smiths, Albus...about You-Know-Who."

"Voldemort?" he said, and four professors simultaneously flinched—already the name carried a taboo, as was obviously Tom's intention. "No...I think that revealing his origins will only further agitate the students. I would also advise you not to let the knowledge that he is targeting Muggles and Muggle-borns spread too far."

"But...well, he is," Horace said slowly.

"I suppose you would rather see a riot in the corridors than a bit of unnecessary truth hidden from your students?" Pomona asked sharply.

"Well, no, but..."

"We simply cannot risk the divisions that will arise if that knowledge becomes common—many students will guess, of course, but it is one thing to hear it from a Housemate and quite another indeed to hear it from a professor."

The four Heads considered it for a moment, before nodding one by one.

"It is agreed, then," Dumbledore said. "There are dark, difficult days ahead of us, and we must be well-prepared if we are to survive them at all, let alone with this school intact."

"War, Albus?" Pomona said. "You're suggesting we take Hogwarts to war?"

Dumbledore smiled sadly and shook his head. "No...I suspect that war will come to us."

***

Lily was lucky that the house-elves brought their luggage to their dormitories for them—she was far too exhausted to carry her trunk herself. Between Timmy Callahan, a third year Gryffindor with Black and Potter's penchant for mischief bordering on casual cruelty, and Bellatrix Black's gang of unruly, hex-happy Slytherins, she had had a miserable time of enforcing order on the Hogwarts Express. It had not helped that Lupin had skived off his duties to go laze about with Black, Potter, and Pettigrew. In fact, had she not been so skilled at Charms—Flitwick had as good as told her that she would be getting an Outstanding on her Charms OWL—she probably would have spent the night in the hospital wing, considering some of the nasty jinxes the Slytherins had hurled at her.

When she finally managed to slink away from breaking up petty squabbles, she headed straight for her dormitory, intending to collapse onto her familiar four-poster bed and sleep dreamlessly until the next morning, but the hushed voices chattering inside the dormitory quickly quelled that notion. She pushed the door open and walked inside, and the room fell oddly silent.

"Don't mind me, you lot. Carry on," she said airily, with a wry grin at her friend Bettina Toal. Bettina did not return the expression—instead she looked stricken.

"Hullo, Lily," Winifred Bones said timidly. The other girls echoed the salutation.

Well, Lily thought, this was certainly quite wrong. The other girls were never nervous—there had been a reason they had all been put into Gryffindor, and Lily had long suspected it was because of their particular brand of forwardness, which some would call a gross lack of subtlety.

"'Lo. Good holiday?" she asked.

"Oh—oh yes," Havalina Moore said. "Well, except for the a—"

Bettina shushed her, further arousing Lily's suspicions.

"You mean the attacks?" Lily said loudly.

"Well...well yes," Bettina said nervously.

"Don't stop on my account," Lily said dismissively, crawling onto her four-poster. "Terrible business, those attacks."

"I don't know how you can be so brave about this, Lily!" Elizabeth Fousen said shrilly. "I mean, if I were you I'd be dead frightened!"

"Why should I be afraid?" Lily said. "S'not like I've gone round crossing Dark Lords."

"Lily," said Bettina. "I don't think the Smiths went and crossed You-Know-Who."

Lily shrugged in her bed—how was she supposed to have offended someone when she did not even know his name? No one on the train nor in the _Daily Prophet_ had dared refer to him by anything but You-Know-Who or He Who Must Not Be Named. "Wasn't the wife related to that Crouch fellow, though? The hardliner from the Ministry?" Lily had heard of Bartemius Crouch, after all, and his policies towards any lawbreakers—he seemed to believe that petty thieves ought to be locked up for life.

"His sister, I think," said Winifred. "My mum knew her."

"Well, there you have it," said Lily. "You-Know-Who went after her to get to Crouch."

"They weren't close, though. Her brother never got over her marrying a Muggle—besides, didn't you hear about what they found on her body?"

"No," Lily said. "What was it?"

"A mark—a brand, I guess you'd call it...well, my dad works for the Leonidas Institute—they keep all these records and stuff on ancient wizard history—and the Ministry came to them about it."

"Well?" Lily asked impatiently.

"The brand traces back to the Romans...it's a death symbol, you know, the one they used to mark on people who betrayed their families."  
"Blood-traitors," Lily said, her innards turning to ice. She did not have to open her eyes to see her friends nodding. "So it's one of _those_ groups." She had heard the rumours, of course, on the train. She had simply assumed Bellatrix had been making things up—she was the sort of girl who would, especially since she had seemed to develop such a potent grudge against her since September.

"They don't have any suspects yet," Bettina said quickly. "I mean, as to the organisation. But I'm sure they'll catch them!"

Lily did not respond. Dark Lords were never caught and thrown in Azkaban—she had paid enough attention in History of Magic to know that. She rolled over, giving the impression of sleep, allowing her friends to continue their hushed conversation.

But Lily did not sleep well that night.

***

There were some that said Cassius Morley was a cruel man, a man prone to sudden bursts of fury which became even more horrible when they were premeditated. His appearance certainly reflected this perception—his greying hair was long and unkempt, hanging down to his elbows. His face was thin, hollow, and pointed, his nose long and crooked and his eyes sunken and glinting evilly in the muted sunlight of the Defence classroom. His skin was sallow and appeared to be stretched thinly over his skull, an effect that was duplicated in his long-fingered, spidery hands. The Marauders often speculated that he might have been a distant relation of Severus Snape, but those theories had quickly been dashed when Morley expressed an all-encompassing loathing for all of his students, Slytherins especially.

As James and his friends strolled into the classroom, Morley was sitting at his desk, examining his students as a hawk examined its prey. They took their usual row of desks in the back of the classroom, waiting for their fellow fifth years—Gryffindor and Ravenclaw were together for Defence this year—and pretended not to notice that Morley's eyes were fixed firmly on Remus.

"Bloody poofter, can't keep his eyes off me," Remus muttered, eliciting quiet laughs from James, Sirius, and Peter—they were not so foolish as to laugh loudly in front of Morley. Remus chuckled slightly, but he had wrapped his arms around himself and was shivering a bit. None of his friends failed to notice his pallor or his sickly movements—nor had they ignored their friend's new lunascope, which put the full moon rising in a week's time.

"Calm down, Moony," said James. "He'll probably resign soon enough." It was a valid point, as Hogwarts was notorious for losing its Defence professors every year. There were rumours of a jinx on the position—those rumours had nearly seen James sent to Beauxbatons and Sirius to Durmstrang.

"Hope he gets sacked before that," Peter whispered. "I don't think I can stand another five months of this."

"What're we doing this month?" Sirius asked, ignoring his smaller friend. Anyone who overheard Sirius's comment would likely assume they were planning some devastating bout of mischief that was bound to drive the prefects (excluding Lupin, who, as any professor would have noted with distaste, ought not to be involved in such dealings) mad.

"I don't know," James said thoughtfully. "We definitely ought to try something new, though."

"Prongs..." Remus said warningly. "It's good enough that you...did what you did to help me, but you don't need to go getting yourselves in trouble because of it."

"What, you mean wandering the grounds after hours?" asked Sirius innocently. "Us?"

"What are you suggesting, just leaving Moony in that shack until sunrise?" Peter asked indignantly.

"Of course not," James said dismissively. "We'd take him with us."

"What?" Remus squawked, loudly enough to draw odd stares from Ferdinand Bosworth, who had just entered the classroom.

"Yeah, Prongs and I were talking about it in Ancient Runes—at least until he started sighing like a little girl."

"Oh, Evans's is in that class—I'd forgotten," Peter said wickedly.

"Shut it, Pads," James said.

"You shut it," Sirius retorted, "and get yourself a pair of tits to go with that womanly flower of yours; the flat look is just unattractive."

"Just go on," Remus said impatiently. "What were you discussing in Runes?"

"Well, you're pretty big when you're all furry," Sirius said cautiously, glancing round at the other students, who were already chatting amongst themselves. "But Prongs and I aren't exactly titchy ourselves, so we can keep you, you know, on the path or what not."

"And I can poke the knot," Peter squeaked. Remus realised that this was not simply an idle conversation in Ancient Runes—Peter had been in Divination with Remus when that conversation had taken place.

"Let me get this straight," Remus said slowly. "When I transform, you're not just going to keep me company. Instead, you're going to have Wormtail open the Shrieking Shack and let me loose on the grounds, relying only on the combined brute force of two animals—"

"Two animals with the brains of two brilliant, devilishly handsome wizards!" Sirius protested.

"—like I said, the brute force of two animals—one of which is hoofed, of course—to keep me from rampaging into Hogsmeade."

"That's the general idea," James said calmly, raking a hand through his messy hair.

"Tell me, Prongs, what intoxicant you were under the influence of when you decided that this was feasible, possible, or remotely wise," Remus asked through clenched teeth. "Because I would like to procure it in great quantities."

"None," Sirius said proudly. "We were perfectly sober."

"I'm astonished," Remus deadpanned.

"So, I take it you're in?" James asked obliviously. Peter eyed both James and Remus nervously, and Sirius nodded, beaming at his lycanthropic friend. Remus very much wanted to tell them no, he was not in, and if he did consent to go along with their mad plan and he got loose, the Ministry would likely hang him.

"Fine, but if anything goes wrong—never again," he said. Hanged for a Sickle, hanged for a Galleon, after all. Morley, however, was likely to hang someone for less than a Knut, and was currently glaring at the quartet as if he would like to do that very thing at the moment.

"Potter, Lupin, Black, Pettigrew...in case you have not noticed, the lesson has begun," Morley hissed menacingly. "Ten points apiece from Gryffindor for a chronic lack of scholarly motivation." He stood, his spindly form towering ominously at the front on the classroom. "We are less than six months from your Ordinary Wizarding Levels, as you should know. Considering this and other...events...we shall be increasing the intensity of these lessons rather drastically."

"What events, sir?" stammered Toal (one of Evans's friends, James noted distantly), looking unusually pallid in her seat.

Morley scowled viciously. "Tell me, Miss Toal, are you normally this daft, or were you greeted on Christmas morning by a team of Ministry Obliviators?" he snarled, causing the normally boisterous Gryffindor to shrink back.

"Leave her alone!" shouted Evans defensively, and James felt something in his chest (he would not admit it was his heart, of course, lest Sirius find out and mercilessly remind him of his budding womanhood) flutter desperately.

"Miss Evans," Morley said, his sadistic grin revealing several broken and yellowed teeth. "I would think that you, of all people, would be more interested in what I have to say than in the petty weaknesses in an obviously flawed young witch. Twenty points from Gryffindor for gross insubordination. Obedience," he bellowed, now speaking to the entire class (as if he had not been clearly audible when reprimanding Evans), "is a necessary skill that you all must develop in the times to come. The headmaster has been quite clear about what you shall need to know, both in terms of magical skills and general awareness, and what I may impart to you during your time under my tutelage.

"You will have heard, of course, that a Dark wizard murdered the Smiths, a mixed-blood family from Kent, on New Year's Eve. This is not false, nor is the rumour that the mixing of Muggle and magical blood was the reason for their demise." He cast an unusually harsh (even for him) glare at his students before continuing, but his class remained utterly silent and still. "Lizzie Smith was killed for marrying a Muggle, David Smith was killed for being a Muggle, and the children were killed for being born of such a union. The name of the murderer is known, of course, and there have been rumours—yes, you may place some stock in rumours, you buffoons. Things oft repeated in suspect circles have a nasty tendency to be somewhat factually correct—rumours that the name is less a name than a call, an invitation for the Dark Lord to appear at your door, wand in hand. The Ministry of Magic has gone to great lengths to avoid mentioning his name directly, leaving it to those bolder and more foolish than themselves to spread his identity—I am not one of these dunderheads. In this classroom, we shall refer to him as the Ministry does, as He Who Must Not Be Named.

"In accordance with the Ministry's declaration of a nationwide mobilisation of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to combat He Who Must Not Be Named, we shall be studying the means of combating the darker weapons in a wizard's arsenal and the creatures the Dark Lord might employ in his crusade against the Muggles and Muggle-borns of Britain. We shall spend the rest of the month covering various curses that, while not Unforgivable, are of dubious legality. Our study of curses will proceed with an incremental increase of both intensity and complexity of the spells, culminating in April, when we shall begin studying the Unforgivables." Morley paused to savour the collective gasp that the students let slip. "Beginning in May, we shall devote our time to a more in-depth review of Third- to Fifth-Tier Dark creatures, beginning with..." Morley paused again, and this time directed his cruel grin towards the Marauders, "...werewolves."


	4. Woes of Saint Valentine's

  
Author's notes: James and Lily clash, Remus has a date, Sirius stands alone, Quidditch is played, and Peter breaks the Man's Man Code of Honour--with devestating results.  


* * *

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

 

**Chapter Four -- Woes of Saint Valentine's**

 

February, 1976

 

Between Professor Morley's new approach to teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts (which the Marauders had jokingly dubbed "How To Impart Worthwhile and Necessary Knowledge While Still Being an Enormous Twat," despite how serious they knew the subject matter to be), the Ministry of Magic's declaration of open warfare against those who would follow the Dark Lord (no one had made this particular allegiance public, but no one was stupid enough to think the Dark wizard was acting alone) and the ominous, continuing debate between two _Daily Prophet_ reporters in the newspaper's editorial section, James had imagined Hogwarts—most especially its students—would never return to the way it had been before Voldemort (James had not taken to this He Who Must Not Be Named business, especially since the name, with its obvious origin, gave him an opportunity to show off his mostly unknown talents with the French language. Still, it was hard to show off when everyone flinched at the word he was saying) had killed Lizzie and David Smith. Miraculously, however, things did return to normal—a good deal of students had, like Peter, decided that talking about the war was a pointless and disheartening task—and within a week Quidditch had overtaken Dark Lords as the most popular topic of mealtime discussion.

Of course, this was a feat made all the more incredible by the fact that the next Quidditch match was not until the end of February, and it was only the beginning of the month—unless James's calendar was telling lies, which it had been known to occasionally do after Sirius had accidentally hexed it in their third year. James was quite proud of himself—though he had not been made Captain this year (Candice Bergen had received that honour) he proudly told anyone who would listen about the amazing team Gryffindor had assembled this year.

"Wormtail's really coming along, you know, since the last match—"

"Hey!" protested Peter.

"Well, it's true," Sirius drawled. "We only won the last match because Kingsley knocked out the Hufflepuff Seeker before he could beat Kennard to it—that and the Chasing. Lucky Prongs is so good that he makes two goals for every one you can't block."

"Shut your mouth, Padfoot," Peter said, flushing.

"Come off it," Remus agreed. "If Prongs says he's getting better then he's getting better."

"Fine...but only because tomorrow's the full moon," Sirius said, a broad grin of anticipation creeping across his face.

"Are you sure you want to go through with this, Moony?" Peter asked, visibly concerned. In the days since their discussion during Morley's lesson, their plan to roam the Hogwarts grounds as animals had developed from a flight of fancy to an actual, thought out (or as thought out as James and Sirius ever got), feasible plan.

Remus nodded. "Yeah, I'm sure." He grinned at Peter. "It'll be fun."

"Dead useful, too—imagine what we could do with the information," Sirius said.

"Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs present to those relishing romantic rendezvous," James said lyrically, "a complete and most intriguing map of the secluded areas of the Hogwarts grounds."

"Not a bad idea, Prongs," Remus said thoughtfully.

"What, mapping the grounds?" James asked. "Wouldn't be as useful as mapping the castle."

"But we could do that too, couldn't we?" Peter asked.

"Of course we could!" Sirius exclaimed. "We'd want to enchant the thing to show who is where, though, so we could be sure the area was clear."

"Dead useful, indeed," James said. "We should definitely try it."

He was sure they would have discussed the idea further—he, at least, was quite eager to—but the sounding of the bell marked the sudden rush for stragglers (and hooligans like themselves, James supposed) to hurry to their lessons. James and Sirius were off to Ancient Runes, while Remus and Peter headed towards the North Tower for Divination. Any further discussions of maps and enchantments would have to take place at a later date.

***

The night of the full moon was a quiet one, Lily thought. Potter and his gang were nowhere to be seen—it was far too likely that they were off breaking an inordinate number of rules in the pursuit of petty, adolescent fun and worthless games. Though she was loath to admit it, she was rather glad they were off marauding and not bothering her. Their absence gave her the peace and quiet necessary to not only revise for her Ancient Runes OWL (yes, they were nearly five months away, but she had always found the class difficult). Of course, this was not her only motive—she had in her hands a letter from home. Her parents had bought her an owl when she first started at Hogwarts, but had only invested in one for the Evans home during her holiday, when they decided that they did not like writing to Lily only when Lily could be bothered to send a letter home with Turlough. She opened the letter.

_Dear Lily,_

_Sorry to have taken so long to write you, but your father has only just got used to having Stanley (this owl! Do you like the name?) in the house. Petunia hasn't taken a liking to dear Stanley either, I'm afraid, but since she's living in London now_ (Lily was well aware of this, having joined her mother and father in helping her older sister move into her new flat) _I suppose it won't be too much of a disruption for her. Though I won't be sending her any letters by owl! She's still seeing that Vernon Dursley boy, and she swears she'll bring him round next time you're home._ (Lily could not care less if Petunia ever brought her boyfriend round to meet her, though he had already met their parents. From all she had heard, Vernon Dursley was a terrific bore.) _Speaking of boys, how is that bloke you were on about at Christmas? Jim? James? I'm terrible with names. How are classes? I know you've your O Levels coming up (do they call them O Levels at Hogwarts? Your father said something about owls, but I thought he was just cursing at Stanley again) so I hope you've been studying hard! Write soon, and often._

_Love,_

_Mum_

Lily sighed, slouching back into her squishy armchair. She was sorry she had ever mentioned Potter to her mother at all. Upon her return to the Muggle world, she had been so fed up with his incessant chauvinism and ploys to date her that she had vented her frustrations in the form of a long, hearty tirade against the overwhelming arrogance of Potter and his cronies. She had never thought that her mother might take her anger for some _other_ sort of passion, and weaning her mum off the idea was proving to be a long and difficult task. At least no one else had been in the common room to see her blush a most unflattering shade of scarlet—it was nearly two in the morning, well after curfew. If that blasted Care of Magical Creatures essay had not taken her so damn long, she might have been asleep in bed by now. She set the letter aside and picked up _Ancient Runes Made Easy_.

"Runes then, Evans?" asked a male voice from the portrait hole. A seventh year she vaguely knew was standing there, glancing at her stack of books with a slight air of haughtiness.

"Scade's set us an essay on Roman runes for Monday," Lily said casually, before looking at him suspiciously. "Why are you coming in after curfew, Travers?"

"My brother—I had to take him up to the hospital wing," he said, idly scratching the stubble on his chin—it was not so impressive after she had heard him bragging about it to his friends last night in the common room.

"What happened?" Lily asked. She was not terribly concerned about Jack Travers's twin, Anthony, but anything was better than studying the irregular conjugation of the verb 'barter'.

"Caught a Quaffle with his face," Travers said sheepishly. "He's Hufflepuff's Keeper, and that lot of duffers couldn't mend a quill."

"They're not all bad," Lily said, remembering Benjy Fenwick supporting her during November's prefect brawl.

"Load of idiots and Mudbloods—shit, you're Muggle-born, aren't you," he muttered after her eyebrows rose in response. "Sorry," he said, not sounding very sorry at all. "You don't seem like one."

"Why wouldn't I be?" Lily asked indignantly.

"Well, I mean—they're all—you know," Travers said, visibly flustered.

"No, not really," Lily said airily, trying to hide her rising anger.

"Oh...well, I'm off to bed," Travers said loudly. "Good night, Evans, and good luck with those Runes."

"Right," Lily said, burying her nose in her book and pointedly not watching Travers ascend the staircase to the seventh year boys' dormitory. She had barely managed to advance to the next set of irregularly conjugated runes when the portrait hole opened again. Agitated, she turned her head.

"'Lo, Evans," said Potter in a voice that was far too energetic for two in the morning. "Studying late tonight?"

"No, I just fancied a bit of watching the bloody fire," Lily drawled sarcastically.

"Ancient Runes, then?" Potter asked cheerily, flashing her a grin that was probably supposed to be charming, but only came off as conceited. He looked round airily, but there was an edge of something too close to nervousness for Lily's liking. "Scade didn't set us anything, did he?"

"No," Lily lied through gritted teeth. " _Some_ of us revise for OWLs before June, Potter."

"I revise!" he protested.

"Just...shut up, Potter," Lily said, rubbing her forehead. She would probably end up with a migraine tonight—talking with Potter tended to give her the piercing headaches.

"Want to go to Hogsmeade with me on Valentine's Day?" he asked nonchalantly, but his hazel eyes constantly shuffled between their fixed point on the ceiling and her own eyes.

"Remember what my answer was last time?" she said sweetly. His face fell. "Add 'sod off' to it and you've got my answer now. Get to bed, Potter, before I give you detention."

"You're not allowed," he said defiantly.

"McGonagall is, and if you think she won't give you detention for staying out after curfew then you're sorely mistaken."

"Yeah, but—"

"No buts, Potter," Lily growled.

"Are you sure about Hogsmeade?"

"Positive."

"Absolutely positive?"

"Never been more positive in my life."

"Not even when—"

"Bed. Now. Go."

Potter paused for a moment, as if waiting for something—or perhaps he simply wanted to say something more—but he stopped, and shrugged.

"Suit yourself, Evans. See you in the morning?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked angrily.

"We've Ancient Runes first thing tomorrow," he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world (which, Lily supposed, it was). "We both take that class...ergo, we'll see each other. You ought to go to bed—all those runes are befuddling your brain."

Potter walked up to his dormitory without another word. Lily stayed for a few minutes, desperately trying to prove Potter wrong, but she eventually conceded—she needed the sleep, after all. Potter was only right by circumstance.

Only by circumstance.

***

"Want to go to Hogsmeade with me on Valentine's Day?" Peter said mockingly, in a high-pitched voice that was meant to be James's. "Can you hear the casualness in my voice? I sincerely hope you can because I spent half an hour between the Great Hall and the common room forcing it into my voice with none but loyal Wormtail and brave Padfoot to gauge my success!"

"Shut it, Wormtail," James said. "I liked you better as a rat."

"Just bad luck, Prongs," Sirius said. The Marauders (minus Moony, whom they had just sealed in the Shrieking Shack) were sitting in their dormitory, sprawled out on their four-poster beds and lounging about by the light of a candlestick. It had been sheer luck that James had distracted Lily long enough for Sirius to sneak up to the dormitory with Wormtail inside of his robes—they barely fit under the Invisibility Cloak together as it was, and they certainly could not have all made it underneath the raiment without Lily noticing.

"Brilliant plan, though," Peter said.

"We oughtn't to have left Moony in there," James said quietly. "He'll tear himself up terribly."

"What would you have suggested we do? Bring him back to the dormitory? It'd be a ruddy hassle getting _him_ under the Cloak, wouldn't it?"

Peter laughed at the image conjured, but James did not.

"We should've stayed, we're his friends, we could—"

"Honestly, Prongs, if we'd stayed out all night _someone_ would've noticed that all the fifth year Gryffindor boys never came down from Gryffindor Tower, and it wouldn't take long before they cottoned on that we were out all night. Then, of course, the staff would realise that we'd been keeping Moony company—word would spread, they'd chuck Moony out and lock us in Azkaban."

"Azkaban?" Peter asked, aghast. "Surely they wouldn't—"

"We're Animagi, Pete," James said solemnly. " _Illegal_ Animagi. It'd be straight to Azkaban. Pads is right...we didn't have much of a choice." He sounded as if he was trying to convince himself more than anyone else.

"Now you're seeing reason, Prongs," Sirius said. "I don't know about you lads, but I'm never going to Azkaban if I can help it."

"Please, the Law Enforcement Squad will get you on petty larceny," Peter joked.

"Bollocks," Sirius said dismissively. "I don't steal—I only borrow for extended periods of time. Without asking. Easier to get forgiveness than permission, after all."

"And the truth behind the Black family fortune comes to life..." said James in a faux-ominous voice that was obviously designed to imitate Sybill Trelawney, a self-proclaimed Seer who had been a seventh year during their second year.

"What, goblin-bribing and other unsavoury acts most unbefitting of a noble family?" Sirius said with a barking laugh. "No secrets here, mate. The noble and most ancient house of Black, and it's getting blacker every day."

There was a moment of silence—neither Peter nor James had any idea how to react to Sirius's dark condemnations of his family.

"What're we doing on Valentine's Day, if Prongs—once again, I might add—doesn't have a fine lass on his arm?" Peter asked wryly.

"What else would we do?" Sirius asked in wide-eyed surprise. "Wreak havoc and cause general mayhem."

***

On the thirteenth of February, a massive snowstorm covered both Hogwarts and Hogsmeade in several feet of snow. This, Peter knew, was a sign from God, Merlin, and the Queen of bloody England that Marauder mayhem was condoned, nay, ordained by the Fates. It was with this in mind that the Marauders gathered in the fifth year boys' dormitory, rolls of parchment (to take inventory and make lists of Items Most Necessary) and maps of Hogsmeade (to plan Pranks Most Brilliant) spread out before them. Sirius and James were arguing over which alleyway next to Madam Puddifoot's from which to spring their Annual Ambushing of the Amourous when Remus finally walked in.

"Moony!" Peter cried. "You're late!"

"In the old days, we would've keelhauled you for insubordination," Sirius said disdainfully. "Come on then, we've put you at strategic locations throughout the day—just enough responsibility without infringing on the stringent rules of prefect conduct—"

"Commonly known as wankery," James added.

"Sorry, lads," Remus said sheepishly, looking at the floor intently. "I can't join you."

"What?" the trio shouted in unison.

"Why not?" demanded Sirius.

Remus muttered something unintelligible.

"What was that?" Peter asked, blanching suddenly.

"I've...I've a date," Remus said quietly. There was silence. Then Peter, James, and Sirius burst out into raucous laughter.

"Good one, Moony!" shouted James.

"Cracking good," added Sirius.

"I'm not joking," Remus said, perturbed.

"Really?" Sirius drawled sceptically. "Who is it, then?"

"Connie Barr, if you must know," Remus said coolly.

"The Ravenclaw?" Sirius asked, eyebrow arched.

"The seventh year?" James asked, impressed.

"Yes, and yes."

"And I suppose you're going to Madam Puddifoot's for her..." James made a face. "Valentine's special?"

"What if I am? Isn't that where you were planning on taking Evans if she hadn't turned you down so thoroughly?" Remus shot back.

"Calm down, Moony," Peter said pleadingly. "It's not like we'll ruin your date or anything."

"Speak for yourself, Wormtail," Sirius said, grinning evilly. "I've got a lovely plan involving a pair of Nose-Biting Teacups, eighty-seven Dungbombs, and those Slinging Slimesacks I bought."

"We haven't the Slimesacks anymore, Padfoot," James said. "Unless you've bought more since I ran into that stash in November."

"Bollocks, you're right," Sirius muttered. "Forgotten about that, I had."

"I'll keep them in line, Moony, I promise," Peter said.

"Right," Remus said sceptically.

"Oh, Moony, do you think so little of us? To believe we would carry out such a dreadful act of sabotage!" Sirius exclaimed dramatically.

"To think we would dash his happiness so readily!" James added.

"Well, you would," Peter said.

"True," James said thoughtfully. "But we won't."

"We won't?" Sirius asked disbelivingly.

"We won't," James said finally. "Moony can join in the chaos after his date. Which we shall tease him mercilessly about."

"But no sabotage?" Remus asked hopefully.

"No sabotage," James and Sirius said together. "Marauder's honour."

"Oh, thank God," Remus said, relived. He plopped down onto his bed. "What've we got planned out so far?"

James, Peter, and Sirius smiled. Date or not, Remus was a Marauder.

***

As it stood, Remus's date was the only one they had sworn not to sabotage, a fact Sirius took great delight in when he sighted his younger brother strolling into Madam Puddifoot's with a fellow Slytherin fourth year on his arm. Peter had to physically restrain him—James would have been able to do it with words, Peter knew, but the wiry bloke had not yet arrived in the alley next to the tea shop. He had come into the village with Peter, Sirius, and Remus, but Remus had soon split off to go find Connie Barr (who, if Peter's suspicions proved accurate, did not seem to like Remus's friends at all) and James had cited the need to purchase supplies. Still, Zonko's did not usually take this long to help a well-paying customer, especially a regular like James.

"Where's Prongs?" Sirius asked impatiently, voicing Peter's thoughts.

"How should I know?" Peter retorted.

"He's late—he's bollixing the plan!" Sirius whinged. "Can't you go find him or something?"

"Why don't you go?"

"Because if Regulus leaves, I'm not waiting for you lot. I'll get him myself!"

"Fine, fine, I'll go," Peter said, throwing up his hands in resignation. He scurried out of the alley, walking nervously down the High Street. He would check the Three Broomsticks first, he decided—it was entirely likely that James could have stopped for a butterbeer before joining the other Marauders.

Suddenly, he was on the snowy ground, his cloak thoroughly soaked with wet snow. He looked up to see what he had run into, only to see a tall man offering a pale, clammy hand to Peter.

"Sorry about that, lad," the man said jovially. He smiled, his bluish-green eyes twinkling merrily. He looked quite odd with his thin, coppery-brown moustache and wavy hair, especially when Peter noted his dark, patched overcoat. "Wasn't watching where I was going."

"No, my fault," Peter said hurriedly, brushing the snow from his front.

"Haven't I seen you round here before?" asked the strange wizard.

Peter shook his head. "I'm a student—we aren't allowed in the village all that often."

"No, I'm sure I've seen you before...oh well," he said, as if shaking off a particularly interesting thought. "My name's Jarvis Wells."

"Peter Pettigrew, pleasure to meet you, really must be going," Peter said breathlessly. Something about Mr Wells made him very nervous, but he could not put his finger on just what it was.

"Right then. See you round, Mr Pettigrew," Wells said cheerily, walking off along High Street. Peter paid him no mind and hurried to the Three Broomsticks, peeking in the door. There were several students there—even Evans, though she was with a Hufflepuff boy he did not recognise—and a strange, jerky fellow at the bar who seemed to be rooted to his stool, but no sign of James Potter.

"Oi, Evans!" he called out. The redheaded girl looked up.

"Oh, it's you," she said with slight disgust. "What do you want?"

"Have you seen James?" he asked.

"Why would I have seen that—that prat?" she asked angrily. The Hufflepuff boy was now eyeing Peter as if he was ready to fight, a prospect that Peter did not relish. The other boy was bigger and stronger than him, and neither James nor Sirius was there to support him.

"No reason, just wondering if he'd stopped in."

"I saw him heading towards that haunted house over there," Lily said, pointing out the window towards the Shrieking Shack. "Stupid bastard."

"Right, right," Peter said, laughing nervously. "Well, sorry to bother you!"

James had headed for the Shrieking Shack? The Shack was known to the students (who did not know the true nature of the house's so-called haunting) as the place to take a girl when one thought they might wind up doing something more than simply snogging. James and Sirius had long ago ruled that the house was off-limits for the Annual Ambushing of the Amorous, primarily because their previous knowledge of the house would become all too apparent. Also, as they had solemnly stated, while many things could be forgiven in the name of humour, the ignoble and dastardly act of todger-blocking was strictly forbidden by the Man's Man Code of Honour. But that could only mean...

No. James was after Evans, and that was that. Either he had broken his own rule, or he was having a shifty for the sake of next month's moonlit adventure. Nothing more. So, of course, it would be perfectly safe to pop in on him...

Before Peter realised he was walking, he was at the door of the Shrieking Shack. He hesitated anxiously, prepared to turn round and walk back to the alley—James had certainly made it there by now, they were simply overreacting, he had been delayed at Zonko's or some other completely plausible explanation that accounted for his tardiness and, more importantly, placed him far away from any girl in the Shrieking Shack. He had turned round fully when he heard a loud thump, like a body toppling off furniture.

It was not James, Peter told himself. For one, James was never that lucky with birds—not even Sirius could get a girl past snogging on their first outing (this _had_ to be their first outing, if it was James, because he was James and simply could not lie to his friends for an extended period of time), to say nothing of Remus and himself. Of course, Remus was with Connie Barr right now and Peter had managed to convince Florence Nightly to go for a snog behind the greenhouses last year—Bertha Jorkins had discovered them, of course, and Peter had angrily hexed her, much to Sirius and James's (and even Remus's) admiration and congratulation.

Peter knew he was rambling in his head, but anything was better than actually setting foot in the Shack right now. There were noises, too. Not obvious sex noises, but noises that suggested more than snogging.

"Fuck," Peter said. No, that, he supposed, was soon in coming. Oh well, he reassured himself. Gryffindor pride and all that—worse possible scenario was that He Who Must Not Be Named had set up shop in the Shrieking Shack and he would die a quick death. "Go Lions," he muttered to himself, opening the door and stepping inside.

No one was in the sitting room. Peter sighed in relief. Then a repeat of the thump, but it was definitely coming from the second floor. He stood stock still for a moment, unwilling to move. He did so eventually, climbing the stairs with measured difficulty. This would not end well. This could not end well. This sort of thing was best left to Sirius, who would joke with reckless abandon, or Remus, who would stammer hopelessly and offer a selection of reading, or maybe make some witty comment. Peter was unsure of what he would do, because he had never todger-blocked before, and certainly not with James involved.

He was at the room, the brass doorknob glinting ominously in the pale light that filtered through the dirty windows. He grabbed it, muting the sinister sheen. Twisting it was like pulling his own teeth, and the bodies within the room rolled together, towards the door.

Now. Peter threw the door open, standing rigid in the doorway like a detective in some long forgotten detective story, mouth agape because at last the mystery was solved with dishevelled robes and far too much skin for Peter's liking and black, messy hair and fogged spectacles.

"James?" Peter enquired to the fleshy lumps, voice and face aghast.

***

Remus was having a nice time with Connie Barr, and that fact was quite pleasant in and of itself. It certainly helped that Connie was intelligent and none too hard on the eyes.

"So, you find Divination fascinating?" she asked, seeming to be genuinely interested.

"Well, to be honest, I haven't the talent to—you know, See, but Professor Robinson doesn't seem to mind."

"She doesn't? I heard that she's really into that whole dramatic prophesying bit," Connie said, her brow furrowing slightly—here was a girl, Remus noted amusedly, that did not like being wrong.

"Oh yeah, but that's just an act. She's really...well, I guess fun would be the only word."

"What classes did you take?" Remus asked curiously.

"Arithmancy and Ancient Runes," she said sheepishly.

"Fancy Curse-breaking much?" he said airily.

"When I was an ickle second year? I suppose I did. Mum never quite got used to her only daughter being a Ravenclaw."

"What was she?"

"Gryffindor—so were my brothers, so it wasn't as if there wasn't any precedence. So, of course, I was told to pick the boldest and bravest profession possible."

"Really?"

"Oh yes. You ought to have seen how Flitwick reacted when I told him—careers advice, you know, but you'll not have that 'til May, I suppose. Me, off abroad in places like Egypt or Peru, Curse-breaking, what a silly idea."

"It's not that silly. My friend wants to be a Curse-breaker too."

"A Gryffindor, right?"

"Yeah—much to the shame of his family."

"You're friends with that Gryffindor Chaser, aren't you?"

"James? James Potter?"

"That's him—the one who kept scoring on Travers during the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff match."

"What about him?"

"Is he the Curse-breaker?"

Remus resisted the urge to laugh—it would probably seem rather rude. "No, no. James? God, I'm not sure what James wants to be...no, Sirius is the Curse-breaker of our little gang. Arithmancy and Ancient Runes."

"Sirius Black?" Connie asked. "You know him well? I wasn't aware he really socialised...well, beyond a well-placed Dungbomb, you know."

"He doesn't socialise—not really. It's mostly just me and James. And Peter," he added quickly.

"I knew his cousin, back when she was at Hogwarts."

"His cousin?" Remus asked. Sirius had not mentioned a cousin aside from Bellatrix—though her being at school with them made that knowledge hard to conceal. Of course, Sirius was not one to talk about his family; Sirius and his family tended to regard each other as their own greatest shame.

"Andromeda Black—she was a sixth year Slytherin when I was a second year, odd girl. Dated a Muggle-born from Ravenclaw, though, Ted Tonks."

"I'll ask him about it—I presume you want to know what happened to her?" 

She nodded, blushing slightly. "I don't want to give the impression that I'm—I mean, I'm curious."

"Well," Remus said gently. "You are a Ravenclaw."

"That I am," Connie said, sipping her tea.

No, Remus thought, this dating business was not as bad as he had thought it would be. Not a Dungbomb was stirring.

***

A week and a half passed, and Peter did not tell a soul what he had seen in the Shrieking Shack. It was not that James had sworn him to secrecy (though James had) and it was not that he was afraid of what the rumour might spawn (though he was) as much as it was his desire to never think about that sight ever again, so long as he might live.

Quidditch was approaching—the match between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw was sure to be a heated one, and even Remus had not bet on the outcome, though Peter thought that might have had more to do with Connie Barr being a Ravenclaw than the compulsively gambling werewolf's uncertainty about winning. Sirius, however, had laid twelve Galleons on a Gryffindor win, which was quickly followed by a quick and adamant lecture to James about winning at any cost.

James and Peter sat together in the locker room, Peter glancing round nervously at the team and James gripping the handle of his Comet Two Hundred stiffly. Their Captain and Seeker, Candice Bergen, paced in front of them.

"All right, team," she barked. "Ravenclaw has a good team this year—you've already been properly warned about Burke, but Aubrey's a fantastic Beater—Shacklebolt, you ought to take him out early if you can, I'll certainly be trying to—and Mulciber's been Keeping since his second year. He'll know most of our tricks, so change it up, use those feints we used against Hufflepuff.

"The ground will be wet and slippery, so be careful on the push-off. If I see one of you lads slip off your goddamned broom before you get into the air, the Ravenclaws will be the least of your worries. That means you too, Pettigrew—Keepers have to fly as well. Now, there's no reason we oughtn't trounce Ravenclaw today. We've got superior Beaters." She nodded to Kingsley, her companion Beater. "We've got three extraordinary Chasers." James, Janie Stratton, and Laura Wesson all grinned at each other. "We've got a fantastic Keeper—yes, I do mean you, Pettigrew, stop looking so modest—and a grand Seeker. All right, it's time...let's go."

James, Peter, and the rest of the team stood, filing out of the locker room in their matching scarlet robes. The wet, snowy ground of the Quidditch pitch crunched beneath their feet, and the students in the stands erupted into cheers.

"PRESENTING THE GRYFFINDOR QUIDDITCH TEAM!" shouted Ernie Sullivan, the fourth year Hufflepuff commentator. "KENNARD, STRATTON, POTTER, WESSON, BERGEN, SHACKLEBOLT, AND PETTIGREW! Easily one of the finest teams Gryffindor has ever put together, that's the common consensus."

James hazarded a hearty pump of his first. "Pride!" he screamed. The admirers in the stands would not understand him, he knew, but it was worthwhile to hear them scream back. The seven Gryffindors walked to where the new referee, Madam Hooch, was standing. The Ravenclaws were already there—James shot a particularly nasty glare at Mulciber, the smarmy bastard.

"Captains, shake hands," Hooch ordered. Bergen and Mulciber tentatively shook hands. Mulciber sneered at Bergen, and she scowled furiously. They broke apart quickly—James had to resist the urge to hex Mulciber when he made a great show of wiping his hand on his robes. "Mount your brooms!"

James straddled his broom, bending his knees slightly. The whistle blew, and he pushed off the ground. The Quaffle was up, Hooch had thrown it, and he darted towards it with his hands outstretched.

"And Potter nabs the Quaffle from the toss-up!"

James flew close to the edge of the pitch, skirting the wooden wall separating the stands from the pitch proper, much to the delight of the Gryffindor spectators. He cut across the pitch suddenly, zooming towards Mulciber's leftmost hoop. The Ravenclaw boy moved to block, and James tossed it towards the rightmost hoop.

"Potter scores!" cried Sullivan. James circled round, watching as Janie grabbed the Quaffle from a Ravenclaw Chaser and flew down the pitch. Kennard was still scouting round for the Golden Snitch, and the team Beaters were smashing Bludgers back and forth across the pitch.

"Potter!" screamed Stratton, tossing the Quaffle to him. James caught it and flew low, so low he thought his feet might be brushing the ground.

There was a rough crack and a burst of pain, and James rolled onto the wet ground, his broomstick clattering to the ground ahead of him.

***

"Fuck!" shouted Sirius, rising to his feet as James tumbled off his broom. "Did you fucking see that?"

Remus stood next to him, peering over the head of the boy in front of him to see his fallen friend. "Is he all right?"

"That son of a bitch—Aubrey. We'll curse the hell out of him in the corridor tomorrow, mark my words," Sirius growled. The Ravenclaw Beater had aimed a particularly violent Bludger at James's head—it had smashed into the back of the Chaser's skull and sent him careening off his broom. Remus looked round; usually Evans was commenting on how dangerous James's penchant for showing off could be. He found her several rows down, biting her fingernails with a look in her green eyes that might have been worry. Remus smiled thinly—James would certainly be happy to hear that.

"I think he's moving," Remus said quickly. It was true; their friend looked to be stumbling to his feet.

"Goddamn right he is!" Sirius snarled. "That's our Prongs."

***

James's arm was wet and sore, he had probably dislocated his shoulder or some other painful yet fixable injury like that. He hopped back on his broom and took off—Stratton and Wesson had scored several goals while he was on the ground, fortunately, though Peter had let a few in. Kennard was diving towards the ground suddenly, just as James was ascending, and suddenly the whistle blew again.

"Game! Kennard has caught the Snitch! Gryffindor one hundred and ninety, Ravenclaw thirty!"

James sighed with relief, bringing his broom down to the ground. He was definitely going to have to warm himself up before returning to the Tower, where the inevitable after-party would be held. He walked stiffly to the locker room, filing in with the rest of the team—except for Kennard, who was flying several victory laps round the pitch, the Snitch held high above his head. Peter slapped him heartily on the back.

"Good show, Prongs," Peter said.

"Fell off my broom," James said dejectedly.

"You got smashed in the skull by a fucking Bludger, Potter," Bergen said gruffly. "Lucky you didn't die—don't worry about falling off your damn broom."

"Right," James said, none too comforted.

"Relax, Prongs," Peter said. "Padfoot bought some Ogden's from the Hog's Head on Valentine's—the party will be smashing!"

"At least we won," Kingsley said calmly.

This was true, James supposed. They had won, and rather solidly at that.

***

Remus took a hearty swig of the Ogden's that was being passed round the common room, letting a fierce yell of teenage excitement escape his throat. All of Gryffindor was gathered in the common room, in various states of exceedingly loud inebriation—the result of Sirius's generous contribution to his own Get Gryffindor Pissed fund.

Sirius himself was atop Peter's shoulders (the smaller boy was stumbling about trying to keep the shaggy-haired youth up) bare-chested and swinging a shirt round his head like a mace—a cotton mace that had been drenched in Firewhiskey.

"We are Gryffindor!" Sirius slurred, tossing the shirt to a hapless third year girl. "Take pleasure in our lusty mouths and hearty parties! Find me Prongs Potter! Bring me the head of that raging disco king! For he is the light and the truth, hear me! Bring me James Potter!"

Peter giggled below Sirius, losing his balance and allowing the taller boy to topple to the floor. 

"Sorry, Padfoot," Peter said, still giggling madly.

The portrait hole swung open—everyone grew quiet and turned. If McGonagall found them like this...well, Remus did not want to think about that.

"Oi, lads!" shouted James, grinning broadly. "Give me a drink!"

Remus tossed him the bottle of Firewhiskey. "Here you go, Prongs."

"Cheers, mate," James said, quaffing the burning liquid quickly.

Remus did not answer; instead he ran up to James, barrelling into him and wrapping his arms round the boy in a tight embrace.

"Prongs Prongs Prongsie Prongs," Remus said drunkenly. "We love you so much."

There was some commotion from one of the couches; Sirius was snogging some poor fourth year lass. It could have been a bloke, though, but Remus could not be positive from his vantage point—face buried in James's robes.

"Hey, Prongs," Peter said. "Whassat on your lip?"

Remus looked up at his friend, who touched a finger to his lip and pulled it away.

"Is that blood?" Remus asked.

"I suppose it is," James said oddly. "Must've bit my lip when I took that Bludger."

Remus accepted that and thought nothing more, though Peter gave James a strange look.

"Wormtail!" bellowed Sirius. "Come, bear my shapely form across the common room!"

"Coming!" Peter squeaked. Remus quickly ran upstairs, digging through his trunk until he found what he was seeking. By the time he returned to the party, Sirius was once again twirling his Firewhiskey-soaked shirt above his head, bellowing strange rhymes and proclamations, James cheering him on.

Remus raised the camera, aiming carefully, and snapped the picture in a puff of purple smoke.


	5. Easterly Winds

  
Author's notes: Easter holidays arrive, Sirius returns to Grimmauld Place, Uncle Alphard imparts wisdom, James discovers a charming piece of potion-making literature, revelations are made at keyholes, and Dumbledore takes action.  


* * *

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

 

**Chapter Five -- Easterly Winds**

 

April, 1976

 

"Oh, God, you can't be serious," said Lily angrily. As a prefect, she was supposed to help Professor McGonagall keep count of those who would be staying at Hogwarts for the Easter holidays and those who would be leaving. With the recent news of more attacks—supposedly giants had attacked a village on the Cornish coast, but Lily did not know how accurate that was—almost all the Gryffindors had decided to go home.

All of the Gryffindors, of course, besides herself and James Potter. She stormed into the common room, the list of people returning home clutched in her small hand, and saw Potter himself lounging on one of the couches.

"All right, Evans?" he asked, putting on an affectation of maturity. Smarmy git, she thought.

"You—you," she said, her hand shaking as she hurled the list at him. "Sign this now."

"Why should I?" Potter asked amusedly. 

"Because if I'm going to be here over Easter, I'm certainly not staying with you."

"Well, you probably ought to go home then. I'm staying at Hogwarts."

"You...you pompous—I can't very well go home, my parents are holidaying!"

"Why don't you go with them?" he asked.

Lily made a face. "They're going with my sister, her boyfriend, and his parents."

"Not too fond of the lad?" he asked, eyes dancing with mirth.

"Shut it, Potter, and sign the damn list."

" _I_ can't go home either, you know," he said offhandedly.

"Why not?" she asked through gritted teeth.

"My mum and dad are in Stockholm," he said.

"And you can't go with them?"

"Nope. Big wizard's conference—no underage wizards allowed," he said. "First time I've had to stay here, though."

"Well, you've got your gang," Lily said disdainfully. "It's not like you'll be lonely."

Potter shook his head with a sigh. "Pad—Sirius has to go home, his mum's on the warpath again. Pete's got some big family thing to go to, and Remus—Remus's mum's a bit ill, so he thought he ought to go see her."

"Aw, poor baby," Lily said mockingly. 

Potter simply smiled. "Don't you just want to cheer me up?"

Never mind, there was nothing odd about him. Same old Pompous Potter.

"Shut it, Potter," she spat, turning round to walk out of the common room.

"Oi, Evans," he said. She glanced back.

"What?".

"You realise that it took you a whole five minutes to tell me to shove off?" He paused, grinning widely. "You're falling for me, aren't you?"

"I hate you. I hate you so much," she said stonily, before walking out of the portrait hole.

***

"I can't believe McGonagall's putting us all in detention for a week after Easter," Sirius said, visibly disgruntled. "I mean, the week home with Mother and Father is bad enough."

"Well, she _did_ warn us after that party," James said.

"Yeah, but it was only Firewhiskey! I didn't bring any gillyweed or fairy dust or anything!" Sirius whinged.

"Padfoot, only you would argue that you oughtn't to be punished for bringing Hogwarts-banned drinks into the common room because you could've brought illegal drugs," James said, smiling.

"Yeah, but we did our detentions for that!"

"She warned us again, remember?" 

"But it was April Fools, Prongs! How could we let that go?"

"I know, I know, but we can't keep whinging about unjust punishment when we earned it."

"It was fun, though, wasn't it?"

"It was, that."

"That reminds me—"

"Oh, God," James said, fearing the worst—which could be anything from a Love Potion to a gratuitous number of Slinging Slimesacks.

"Don't worry, it's nothing terribly dangerous," Sirius said. "Here." He presented James with a parcel wrapped in plain brown paper. "It's that birthday present I forgot—only got round to it last month."

James opened the parcel quickly, throwing the paper aside carelessly. Inside was—

"A mirror?" James asked sceptically. "Pads, if you're trying to say something..."

"Shut it, you stupid tit, and look on the back."

James turned the mirror over; inscribed on the reverse side was a note in Sirius's untidy scribble.

_Prongs,_

_This is a two-way mirror, I've got the other one of the pair. Just say my name (I've charmed it so that Padfoot, Sirius, and Handsome Stranger work!) into it and you'll appear in my mirror and I'll be able to talk in yours. For holidays apart and separate detentions!_

_Padfoot_

"Where did you get this?" James asked amazedly.

"Made it," Sirius said casually. "Bought the mirrors in Dervish and Banges, got the charms from Flitwick."

"And he just gave them to you?" James asked disbelievingly.

"Well, I told him the truth."

"That you were making—"

"—a way for me to communicate with my best friend, yeah," Sirius finished. "You know old Flitwick, he loves it when students take an interest. Had to pull off the charms myself, though. Difficult magic, even for me."

"How modest," James said wryly.

"Just so you know...I made them out of Dark Detector mirrors, so they should, you know, shriek a bit if I'm trying to reach you. Like a Muggle fellytone."

"Telephone, Pads," James said. "Honestly, you ought to have taken Muggle Studies."

"Hah, and risked the wrath of the family? No, thanks, mate. Besides, I rather fancy Curse-breaking, and I've got to have Arithmancy and Ancient Runes for that."

"Really," James deadpanned. "I didn't know that. It's only the hundredth time you've told me."

"Anyway," Sirius said, ignoring James's barb. "Just...use it to talk to me, whenever. S'not like I've anything better to do."

"All right," James said. "You'd best get going—the train will leave without you."

"Right," Sirius said, hauling his trunk to the dormitory door.

"Hey, Pads?" James called out. Sirius turned, and James looked down, obviously trying not to look at Sirius's eyes. "Cheers, Padfoot."

"See you in a week, Prongs," Sirius said warmly before leaving the dormitory.

***

Forty-eight hours later, Sirius had cornered Regulus's king when they heard a heavy pounding on the door to number twelve, Grimmauld Place.

"Want to get that?"

"You get it," Regulus said absentmindedly, analysing the chessboard for any possible escape.

"You'll cheat if I turn my back, toerag," Sirius said. Regulus looked up at him, his eyes filled with hurt. Sirius's mouth went dry. "I'm sorry, Regulus," he said. "I'll get it."

He stood uncomfortably. He had not fought with his brother so often before they entered Hogwarts, in fact, they had been rather close. Slytherin had made Regulus snobbish and prejudiced, Sirius thought...or maybe Gryffindor had purged those same qualities out of him. He shook away the thought as he opened the door; whoever it was, they probably were one of the pureblood snobs he was railing against in his mental harangue.

"Catch, lad," said a gruff voice as the tall, spidery man in the doorway tossed a twine-bound suitcase at him. Sirius was by no means weak, but even he had to struggle not to drop the unwieldy piece of luggage. The man stepped inside; clad in a pair of raggedy Muggle sandals, khaki shorts that stopped well above his old, scarred, knobbly knees, and a brightly coloured, floral-patterned shirt. The broad brim of his brown leather fedora (complete with hippogriff feather, Sirius noted amusedly) gave him a rakish appearance that was not hampered at all by the enormous sunglasses that he wore—Sirius had seen them before in one of James's Muggle Studies books, Muggle avidors (aviators? Sirius did not pay that much attention) wore them.

"Uncle Alphard!" Sirius said happily. The sound of swift footsteps told Sirius that his brother was also in the room with their eccentric uncle.

"Hello, Uncle Alphard," Regulus said politely.

"'Lo, Regulus. Where's me brother?" Alphard asked.

"He's in Diagon Alley," Sirius said quickly, beaming at his favourite relative. "He didn't tell us you were coming."

Alphard laughed, patting his slight paunch. "That's because he didn't know, I'm afraid." He whipped off his fedora and used the back of his hand to wipe a thin layer of sweat from his gleaming bald scalp. "Bit of a surprise visit, this is." He fished round in the pockets of his shorts, pulling out a pack of Whimble's Wizarding Cigarettes and fitting one into the odd cigarette holder he carried with him. From another pocket he fetched a heavy, silver lighter that had several ornamental silver snakes coiled round it ominously.

"Father won't like you smoking those in the parlour," Regulus said, his eyes darting nervously from the tip of the burning fag to the ornate carpet that could be so easily tainted by falling ash. "Mother won't like it either."

"Shut up, Regulus," Sirius said harshly.

"Play nice, Sirius," Alphard said amusedly. "Reggie, trust me, there are worse things in life than your dad's wrath. And your mum...well, let's hope she's with your dad, eh?"

"She's not," Regulus blurted. "She's upstairs with Kreacher!"

"Kreacher?" Alphard asked.

"Bheaste's spawn," Sirius said quickly. "She had him last summer."

"Ah, I remember," Alphard said fondly. "Lorita's taken a shine to him?"

"Who?" Sirius and Regulus asked in unison.

"Your mum, your mum," Alphard clarified. The boys had never addressed their mother by her first name—it was one of the many taboos of the household.

"Oh, yeah, she loves the little thing," Sirius said disdainfully. Kreacher was young (he was an adolescent as far as house-elves went) but already he was showing some rather potent signs of insanity.

"Well, I suppose all that's left to do is to wait for your dad, boys."

"Sirius and I were playing chess," Regulus said.

"Who was winning?" Alphard asked, his eyebrows rising above his sunglasses in interest.

"I was," Sirius said proudly.

"Was not," Regulus said defiantly.

"Shut it, Regulus," Sirius growled. But any further dispute over the victor of the chess match was ended by the arrival of their father.

"Alchibah!" Alphard said, standing to embrace his brother. Sirius's father looked at him oddly and pushed him back gently.

"Alphard? What are you doing here?" he enquired.

"Well, you know how it is, Alchibah," Alphard said offhandedly. "There was this witch at the pub and—"

"Allegria threw you out?" he drawled knowingly. Alphard nodded and smiled sheepishly.

"She's a right twat, you know—"

"Please, watch your language in front of the children."

"Don't throw a wobbly, Alchibah," Alphard wheedled. "Sirius is sixteen now, he'll have heard worse."

"Of course he will have heard worse," his father said disdainfully. "He is in Gryffindor."

Sirius flushed an angry scarlet, and Regulus elbowed him triumphantly. Their father and uncle walked slowly to the drawing room, conversing loudly as they went. They closed the door behind them, much to Sirius's consternation. The problem was easily resolved; Sirius pressed his ear against the door's silver keyhole.

"Ever the hypocrite, Alchibah. I seem to remember a certain Slytherin prefect cursing like a Hogsmeade barkeeper when a pair of Hufflepuffs ambushed him with a Dungbomb."

"Alphard, such childish pursuits—"

"—are unbecoming of a Black, don't worry, I've heard it all from Father."

"You have spoken to him?" Sirius's father said, sounding mildly surprised.

"Bah, the old bastard insisted I bring Allegria too—he wanted to make sure I was shacking up with a pureblood. Regular man of the times, he is, I remember when he did his nut over Seginus meeting eyes with Hypatia the night before their wedding." Alphard gave a curt laugh.

"Allegria...she _is_ pure, is she not?" he asked worriedly.

"Of course she is," Alphard said dismissively. "I'm not An—" He stopped when Sirius's father gave him a sharp look. "An idiot, Alchibah. An _idiot_."

"How is Seginus, by the way? I assume you have spoken to him as well?"

"How could I avoid him? The ruddy bugger's holed up in the manor—he says he's looking after Father, but I think he's just trying to spoil his children."

"How are Narcissa and Bellatrix?" he asked. Sirius scowled—Bellatrix had been acting very oddly since October, and he did not like it at all. He had not heard from Narcissa much since she had left school after his second year, except when she visited at Grimmauld Place or they went to the Black estate.

"Narcissa is wonderful—she's still seeing that Malfoy bloke—"

"Lucius Malfoy is a perfectly—"

"Acceptable pureblood partner, I know," Alphard sounded impatient. "Bellatrix hasn't done terribly for herself; she's got a pureblood beau as well."

"You mean young Lestrange? Yes, he is quite acceptable, if a bit...ah, nouveau-riche for Lorita and me to be _entirely_ comfortable with."

"Lestrange? Well, I suppose you'd know better than I. Are you going to the reunion in July?"

"Of course, brother. Why would I not? Sirius and Regulus need to see the family, after all. The entire family."

"The _entire_ family, Alchibah? Or just the ones you deem acceptable?"

Regulus tugged at the sleeve of Sirius's robes.

"Sirius," he said nervously. "We ought to go. We shouldn't be listening—"

"Coward," Sirius spat.

"I'm not stupid, Sirius," Regulus protested. "Father will give us the belt if he catches us listening."

"He won't catch us. And he's never given you the belt before, you prat."

"He will if I'm eavesdropping," he whinged.

"Shut it," Sirius insisted, but he drew away from the door slowly. His brother was right, as much as he hated to admit it. There would be plenty of time for asking awkward questions at dinner.

***

Lily normally loved being in the Owlery—it was calm, quiet, and peaceful. This meant that it was the direct antithesis of everything the Gryffindor common room usually was. Though, she had to admit, Potter had not been as disruptive as she had anticipated, an unexpected by-product of his temporary isolation from his cronies. She did not care if he was as docile as a puppy, though, because he was invading her Owlery.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded.

He smirked in that insufferable way of his. "Sending letters. Wo—Pete's birthday is tomorrow, and I promised Mum I'd write."

"Well, isn't that sweet," she drawled sarcastically.

"Leave off my mum, Evans," Potter said, more seriously than she had expected.

"Sensitive, Potter?"

"Not in the least," he said casually, though there was a distant look in his hazel eyes. "I just don't think little old ladies are fair game. Not sporting, right?"

"What's in the parcel, Potter?" she asked shrewdly, noticing the thick box he was tying to the leg of one of the school's owls. "You're not supposed to be using school owls for freight—use your own."

"Can't do it. I've sent Philomena off with Mum's letter. Besides, Dad won't recognise any owl but her, so she's the only one that can take it."

"Why didn't you just wait for your owl to come back from Pettigrew's?"

"I promised Mum I'd write, so I wrote. Excuse me, Evans," he drawled, "for not wanting to keep her waiting."

"I really ought to take points, you know—"

" _Prefect_." He said it as if it were a foul insult.

"—but since it's your mum, I'll let it slide."

To his credit, Lily noted, he actually looked grateful.

"Cheers, Evans," he said, sending the owl off and leaving the Owlery. She sent her own owl off with her letter—to her mum as well, enquiring about their holiday—and headed towards the library. Scade had set another essay, after all, and she was having quite a bit of trouble with the Oriental runes he was covering. As she began to translate several Zen wizard proverbs from their original runes to English, she was accosted by a small, feathery lump. It bounced off her head and shot up towards the ceiling, and Lily could see Madam Pince blanching at the sight. The poor lady looked as if she might have a fit in the middle of the library, but Lily was more concerned about the flying ball that seemed to single her out as a target. Before she could draw her wand, however, the thing (an owl, she realised) dropped a letter on her Ancient Runes book and darted off into the corridor.

Glancing round, she opened the small envelope, pulling out the embossed invitation that rested within. She had seen many of these invitations before, of course, though the owls delivering them had never been quite so enthusiastic.

_Professor Horace Slughorn cordially invites_

_Lily Evans_

_to a gathering of_

_The Hogwarts Slug Club_

_to be held on_

_14 April, 1976_

_in the usual place_

Lily pocketed the invitation. Slughorn's parties were always a spot of fun, if only because of all the interesting alumni that usually flocked to the soirees. This party was not for several days after the end of Easter holidays, and Scade's essay was due the day lessons resumed.

She was halfway through her essay when she realised that James Potter had not asked her out once during their short conversation.

***

Sirius trudged up to his room, full of Bheaste's shepherd's pie and spotted dick, and flopped down onto his bed. Predictably, his mother had done her nut when she saw Alphard sitting so casually at the dinner table, and her portion of the dinner conversation had been devoted to making subtle and not-so-subtle remarks on Alphard's occupation ("The first Black to need a job since the seventeenth century!"), choice of companions ("And your barely pureblood...lady friend, how is she?"), style of dress ("Decided to go rut with the Muggles, Alphard?"), amongst other things. It had been almost painful to watch his mother cut down his favourite uncle as his father and brother looked on indifferently and he was helpless to do anything but watch. This, of course, was a miniscule trouble compared to the series of snide remarks and acidic jibes that his mother had chosen for berating him, most of which seemed to revolve round being Sorted into Gryffindor. The dinner had concluded with his mother shouting about blood-treason and comeuppance, but Sirius had not bothered to stay and listen, instead standing quickly and—utilising a rare burst of good judgement—walking away from the table. He had barely been prostrate five minutes before there was a knock on his door.

"Who is it?" he asked curtly.

"It's me," said the low voice of Uncle Alphard. He did not wait for a reply before opening the door and entering slowly, nervously twiddling his lighter. "I'm sorry you had to see that."

"See what?" Sirius said offhandedly.

"Your mother...we've never got on, you realise," he said.

"Please," Sirius replied dismissively. "It wasn't on your account. I don't think she's ever forgiven me for going into Gryffindor."

"Well, at least you didn't take Muggle Studies," Alphard said weakly.

"I picked subjects at the end of second year," Sirius said. "Back before I knew my mother was a bloody spastic."

"Your mother's been under a lot of stress—"

"What, torturing house-elves? She just stays in the house all day, you know—she's been doing it since I went off to Hogwarts."

"And she's obviously been ill," Alphard continued, ignoring Sirius's barb.

"She's mad, that's what she is," Sirius said darkly. "She's a bloody nutter and I'll be—"

"Do you smoke?" Alphard interrupted, tossing a pack of his cigarettes to Sirius.

"What?" Sirius asked, dumbfounded. "No—"

"Start. All the Blacks do. The sane ones, that is."

"So just you, I take it?" Sirius said wryly, feeling slightly better after his uncle acknowledged his mother's insanity.

"Almost. Andromeda does to, you know—well, I guess you wouldn't. Haven't seen her in some time, have you?" he asked grimly.

"What happened?" Sirius replied, glad to know that his cousin's sudden disappearance from his life was not just a product of some latent paranoia.

"Light up," Alphard said. "It's a long story."

Sirius did so; fumbling awkwardly with the cigarettes and leaning in stiffly so Alphard could light it for him.

"Andromeda dated a Muggle-born wizard by the name of Ted Tonks," Alphard said simply.

"What?"

"Not a long story at all, I suppose," Alphard mused idly. "But, needless to say, one that would explain her disappearance. I'm afraid your Uncle Seginus took it rather badly, swore that she would never be welcome so long as she continued to see the boy."

"So she's still with him?"

"As far as I can tell—she's not come grovelling to her mother and father yet. Still, it's not like I can stay in touch with her. One misstep and bang," Alphard made a jabbing motion, as if pointing his wand at something. "Right off the bloody tapestry. I may be a bit eccentric, Sirius, but I'm not a ruddy traitor."

"So you think they're right, then?" Sirius asked indignantly. "Andromeda's a blood-traitor?"

"I won't deny that I think she ought to consider a more acceptable man," Alphard said stiffly. "But I don't think that a schoolchild's dalliances are worthy of some great damnation either. You'll never hear me say that." He stood. "I wanted to say goodbye, Sirius. I've got to be in Romania on assignment in the morning, and I shan't be trying to Apparate twenty minutes before I'm due, so it's probably best that I leave tonight."

"All right, then," Sirius said awkwardly. Alphard looked him over, grinned, and pulled him into a hug.

"Hang in there, lad. I know you and the rest of the family don't exactly see eye to eye on...well, a lot of things, but it'll be easier once you move out. I'll see you this summer."

"See you, Uncle Alphard."

Alphard left, leaving a confused, torn Sirius to a night of fitful sleep.

***

"Want to skive off Potions?" Sirius asked loftily. James eyed him—ever since lessons had resumed three days ago, Sirius had been trying to persuade James to skive. To be honest, it was a bit suspicious, even for Sirius.

"We're covering the Draught of Living Death, Padfoot—it's always on the Potions OWL, Dad told me."

"Come on," Sirius scoffed. "Like you don't know how to brew it already."

"I don't," James admitted, though he was sure to glance round—it would not do for some ickle thirdie to hear him admit his fallibility.

"Well, you could always get Evans to tutor you," Sirius said lewdly, following the remark with a series of wet noises James decided must have been supposed to imitate snogging. "Slughorn's always going on about her being such a dab hand." The last two words contained a great deal of mocking venom—Slughorn did have a bad (in Sirius's opinion) habit of heaping praise on the pretty Muggle-born.

"Wonder if she's got a dab hand with...other pursuits," Remus said slyly, having joined the duo in their flight from Ancient Runes. Peter caught up with them moments later—their Divination professor, Professor Robinson, had held him after to discuss some facet of Divination that Sirius and James neither knew nor cared about.

"Shut it, Moony," James growled. "Slughorn will have your head if he hears you talking like that about Evans."

"So now it's up to old Sluggy to defend Miss Evans's precious honour?" Peter asked sweetly. "Never thought I'd see you relinquish that noble position."

"He hasn't relinquished it, you see," Sirius added. "He's been sacked."

Peter and Remus let out theatrical gasps.

"Shut it, you lot," James repeated. "We're here."

Together, the Marauders slipped into the Potions classroom, dividing into their usual pairs—James with Sirius, Remus with Peter. Slughorn cast a fond smile at James and Sirius, but did not deign to give the same gesture to Remus and Peter. The reason, James noted darkly, was purely a matter of prestige. James had attended two of Slughorn's parties before, once in third year and once in fourth, and both times had been immensely unsatisfying. Siriushad attended none,in spite of Slughorn's adamant attempts to recruit the "wayward Black," as he called him, into his Slug Club. Peter, however, was from a rather unimpressive pureblood family, and Remus was certainly never going to advance into a position of promise and prestige. It was one of, as Remus liked to call it, "the occupational hazards of being a werewolf."

Slughorn clapped his hands together, beaming beneath his walrus-like moustache, and spoke, "All right, class, as we were analysing the components of a Draught of Living Death before the holidays, I think we're quite ready to begin brewing. Instructions are in your books, of course, and the necessary ingredients should be beside your cauldrons—you'll have to measure them out yourselves, though. Can't make things too easy, can I?"

James glanced at Remus, who was rolling his eyes. Potions was easily his friend's worst subject—even worse than Care of Magical Creatures, where almost every creature tried to maim him because they could sense his lycanthropy.

Slughorn continued on, "Oh, Miss Evans, excellent progress so far—take note, students, of the particular shade of Miss Evans's potion—good to see you haven't lost that touch of yours, eh? Shame you aren't in Slytherin—"

"Oh, but if I was, I rather suspect that I would've been lynched by now, Professor," Evans said sweetly.

"What cheek!" Slughorn exclaimed, though he never stopped beaming at the Gryffindor. "I would never have let such nasty prejudice go on in my House, you know."

"I wasn't talking about that, sir," Evans said. "I thought they would murder me for doing so much better than they did."

Several of the Slytherins shot her murderous glares, but Slughorn ignored them.

"Perhaps, perhaps," he said, before drifting off to another cauldron.

"And she calls me arrogant," James muttered, though he could not quite draw his gaze from the girl.

"Well, prefects are known for hypocrisy, Prongs," Sirius said wisely.

"Shut it," Remus said curtly.

"I suppose all prefects are instructed to let their friends break the rules, then?" Sirius shot back slyly.

"I really ought to have McGonagall give you detention for the rest of term."

"Come off it, Moony, she's already got us there for the rest of the week," Sirius said. It was true—their past three nights had been spent scrubbing the trophy room (which somehow always managed to become filthy each day), though James would never get tired of polishing their Quidditch Cup from last year.

The lesson continued as expected, both pairs of Marauders brewing their potions to an acceptable standard (though, much to Sirius's consternation, Evans finished first and best) and setting their samples on Slughorn's desk just as the bell rang to end the class.

"Oi, lads," James said. "I have to ask Slughorn a question, all right? I'll see you in Charms."

"Don't be late," Sirius warned quietly. "We've the moon to plan for." James nodded; the last full moon before OWLs was in the middle of May. Satisfied, Sirius hurried out of the classroom to catch up with James and Peter.

James approached the professor's desk, but unfortunately the rotund man was surrounded with other students, all of whom were (in James's none-too-humble opinion) paradoxically both tremendously incompetent and irredeemable swots. He would have plenty of time to talk to Professor Slughorn later, he supposed, and exited the classroom—smashing right into a shorter student as the other boy tried to dart inside. The impact scattered both of their rucksacks, sending quills, parchment, and textbooks flying over the smooth stone floor.

"Watch where you're going, Potter," snarled Severus Snape, his greasy black hair falling lankly to his shoulders.

"All right, Snivellus?" James drawled snidely, taking great pleasure in the way Snape scrambled to gather his things. He raised his wand. " _Accio books_!"

James's books soared from the floor towards him, and he gathered the flying objects with his rucksack. "You're quite lucky I've got Runes next, you know—I don't really have time to hex you." James began walking down the corridor, an unmistakable strut in his gait.

"Well, I suppose she's finally tamed you then, Potter," Snape spat.

James stiffened and turned. "What did you say?" he said dangerously.

"You heard me," Snape retorted.

"Oh, I did, I just don't think you've the balls to say it again," James said sinisterly, reaching for his wand as he approached the Slytherin. Snape drew his own wand quickly, aiming it at James's head.

"You—you leave me be, you great brute," Snape spluttered. "I heard what you did to Rodolphus last month—fighting like a filthy Muggle—I s'pose you picked it up from dogging that Mudblood Evans day and night."

" _Expelliarmus_ ," James said lazily, catching Snape's wand as it flew towards him. "Who I _dog_ , Snivellus, is none of your business—"

"Oh, really?" Snape asked witheringly. "I suppose you ought to tell that to Emme—"

"Shut it, scum," James spat viciously. "You don't know what you're on about."

"So you say, Potter," Snape gloated. "But I think I know a bit too much for your liking."

"Bet you'd like to know who I've been sneaking about with—that is what you're implying, isn't it?" James said menacingly 

"Rather not, if you don't mind," Snape said, a sneer twisting his pallid face.

"Oh, but you'd squeal if you knew," James said ominously. Torturing Snape was a special treat for him—he realised now that Dark Arts blokes like him were bound to throw in with You-Know-Who, but at least he could put a little fear of the Light into the hook-nosed boy before he went and started killing Muggle-borns.

"Please, as if Emmeline Vance comes as any surprise," Snape said dismissively, though he was visibly aware that he was wandless and James was advancing on him.

"Obviously you're not as bright as you think you are, Snivellus," James said quietly. He tossed Snape's wand back to him. "Here. Fair fight, right? Not that you Slytherins would know, but I suppose I've got to try."

Snape lunged forward as soon as he gripped his wand, throwing an unidentifiable hex at him.

" _Protego_ ," James said, trying to keep up the appearance that countering Snape was easy—that last hex had been a surprise, and James had nearly let it hit him. He aimed his wand at Snape, but the sound of approaching footsteps made him hesitate. "We'll finish this later," he said calmly. " _Petrificus Totalus_!"

James stepped over the Snape's paralysed body, not bothering to give the hateful boy a second glance. He hefted his rucksack onto his shoulder, surprised slightly at what seemed like a sudden increase in its weight. Rummaging through the sack lazily, he pulled out a book he had not seen before.

"Advanced Potion-Making?" James muttered quietly. It looked to be an older edition—and NEWT-level, at that. It was probably one of Snape's, especially considering that it looked as if someone had spent a lot of time scribbling notes in the margins. No point in returning it, though; with any luck, the meddling prat was still paralysed in the corridor. He opened the book to a random page, holding it open with one hand as he walked.

_Levicorpus (nvbl)_

***

Sirius was not a suspicious person by nature, but when James doubled back to the Potions classroom after Ancient Runes to ask a question that he said he was going to ask after the actual Potions lesson, Sirius was well aware that not everything was as it seemed. It was not that he did not trust James, or even that he thought James would not ask Professor Slughorn his question—James had already told Sirius about his encounter with Snape—but it was fairly obvious that James was hiding something.

He was wandering through the Potions dungeons when he heard two voices—one male, one female—talking in quiet, frustrated tones. He drew closer to the door, pressing his ear against the keyhole as he had done at home when his father and Uncle Alphard had had their supposedly secret conversation.

"Look, Emmeline, you can't just barge into my personal life and tell me what—"

"Come off it, James, you know what you're doing is far more than questionable."

Sirius pressed his ear harder against the keyhole; it was obviously James and Emmeline Vance, his Slytherin friend...but what was James doing?

"Shut it," James said coolly. "Who I make time with is none of your business."

"Damn it, James," Emmeline said furiously. "Don't you see? You're not the first one she's done this to, you know—and you _do_ know, you've seen it with your own bloody eyes!"

"It's not like that," James said simply, but Sirius could almost see the boy shutting his eyes and turning away from Emmeline.

"Look, I can see the appeal, trust me—I mean, she's not exactly hard on the eyes, and she's an older bird...but think of how much it'll hurt him if he finds out?"

Sirius pressed his ear harder still against the keyhole—James was seeing some girl and he never told him? Unless...

"He won't find out—if it looks like he's going to, we'll break it off. We talked about it last month."

"Do you really think that you'll have due warning before he finds out? You'll get caught—you're being careless, you know. I think one of your other friends knows too..."

"Peter? He...he doesn't know. He thinks he does, but he doesn't. He won't say anything—"

Sirius could not listen further—he knew what was going on. Peter knew _something_ , that much was certain. Still, he could not press the timid Gryffindor for information, not without James realising that Sirius suspected something. Peter knew because Sirius had sent him after James at Hogsmeade, before Remus met up with...

Oh, no. It all fit together. Peter's strangeness, Remus's odd looks, James's unexplained disappearances (even before Valentine's Day, which made them all the more suspicious), Emmeline Vance's urgings...

James was seeing Connie Barr behind Remus's back.

***

It was said that the Isle of Whomp was haunted by a particularly sinister spectre, the spiritual remnant of a foul, loathsome old man who had died alone and friendless, but that did not dissuade Albus Dumbledore from making the short journey from Cornwall by way of a magically propelled rowboat. Whomp was a miserable, rocky place—a fitting grave, the Cornish wizards said, for the man who was supposedly buried there. Still, Dumbledore did not heed their warnings and continued on to the murky isle. It helped that he personally knew the Isle of Whomp's supposed spectre, or at least knew him well enough to know that he was not dead at all.

Still, Theophanes Browne had done a good job of making the Isle of Whomp seem like a haunted island of doom and ill portents, unless the neatly aligned rows of dead post owls leading to the island's only building—a dilapidated four story house—had landed by complete coincidence. That was, of course, if the giant, century-old Whomping Willow that grew in the island's only patch of fertile land did not smash unsuspecting visitors first. Dumbledore followed the corpses to the splintery front door, which he knocked on heartily.

"Who goes there!" bellowed a growling voice from within the house.

"Theophanes!" Dumbledore called. "I've something to discuss with you!"

"Go away!" shouted Theophanes. "I am a sinister spectre, and take great pleasure in torturing foolish wizards! Who are you to demand my attention!"

"Theophanes, stop this foolishness," Dumbledore said disapprovingly. "You may fool the village wizards, but you certainly don't fool me."

"Albus?" said Theophanes. "Albus Dumbledore?" The sound of creaky footsteps echoed through the house and the door opened, revealing a white-haired, hunchbacked man with a thick bottlebrush moustache. "I haven't seen you in—"

"Almost six years, friend," Dumbledore said.

"Right, since you took that Whomping Willow sapling for the grounds...never thought you'd want one of them, Albus—good for putting out an eye or two, they are. Unless you've decided to reinstate Maximum Punishment and sack that Sprout bint?"

"Pomona is a very capable professor, Theophanes, and may I remind you that it was you who retired—it is not as if she seized your position unjustly."

"I was bluffing, Albus! You're the one who forced my hand!"

"Then was it really a bluff at all? There are more foolish things to resign over than the prohibition of corporeal punishment at Hogwarts, after all."

"Not if you ever taught the little bastards, there isn't," he growled. "Not a day goes by that I don't wish I'd given Arthur Weasley to my Willow for sneaking off behind my precious greenhouses with that Molly Prewett slag—"

"They married, you know," Albus said with a fond grin. "Their third child is due in August."

"Figures," Theophanes said, audibly disgruntled. "Come on in, I'll fix you a cuppa."

"Thank you," Dumbledore said politely. "You've certainly done well for yourself," he continued, looking at the various expensive-looking trinkets that were ubiquitously coated in layers of dust.

"Not as well as I'd hoped," Theophanes grumbled. "Bloody Damocles Belby got that lycanthropy grant from the Arcadia Institute—bastard didn't have half the experience I had. If they'd have given it to me, I would've been able to cure lycanthropy entirely in five, maybe ten years!"

"Belby will not?" Dumbledore remembered Damocles Belby vaguely—he had been a student during Dumbledore's early days as a Transfiguration professor, and the young lad had shown no great affinity for the subject. Still, it appeared that his true talent was elsewhere.

"Belby sets his sights to low," Theophanes spat. "He wants to develop a potion that lets werewolves keep their minds during transformations."

"And that isn't worthy in its own right?"

"Potion-developing isn't for the timid, Albus. It takes gall—cheek, if you will—and there's nothing cheeky about making werewolves safe when you could just as well try and cure them. Not to mention Belby's an inferior potions master."

"Why did they refuse you the grant, then?"

"Claimed I wasn't me—said they had my death certificate on file and I was some uppity impersonator. Bastards over in Cornwall must've reported me dead years ago."

"You ought to correct that, you know," Dumbledore suggested.

"Bollocks. No point now, you know, what with this war—potion grants are going to start disappearing fairly quickly."

"Yes...that would not surprise me. Horace has often said the same thing." 

"He would," Theophanes said darkly as he led the headmaster to the kitchen. "But I presume this isn't a social call?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

"It's about this He Who Must Not Be Named character, then." It was not a question so much as an observation.

"Yes, yes it is. I am afraid I need your help."

"You plan to defeat him with saplings?" Theophanes asked sceptically. "Well, I suppose it's better than love, you know—Merlin, that was a barmy concept."

"Theophanes, you're well aware of my feelings on the power of love."

"That doesn't make them any less ridiculous, old chap."

"I've not come for your saplings, Theophanes."

"I know," Theophanes replied. "You're here about the Consecration, aren't you?"

"Yes...you will remember that we discussed it once, after the Grindelwald War—"

"You mean the Second Wizarding War?" Theophanes interrupted. "Don't let the times change the way you look at the past—especially not if you were there."

"Fine, then," Dumbledore said. "We discussed it then, the spells and rituals necessary to gather people and bind them to a creed, using a familiar that has been enhanced with magic..."

"I take it you've got one, then? A familiar that can survive the enchantments?"

"Yes, and one with the necessary symbolic properties for the proposed ideology."

"Fawkes, then?"

"Yes...a phoenix would be most appropriate."

"Let me guess; an organisation that can never fall so long as the spirit burns bright, born again even in the face of defeat, representing the best in all wizardkind, whose fluids heal the most grievous of wounds—which would have to be spiritual, because I doubt we'll be using your fluids for anything anymore."

"You've got it exactly, Theophanes," Dumbledore said sagely. "An Order of the Phoenix."


	6. Marked Futures

  
Author's notes: Lily, James, Sirius, Peter, and Remus learn something about themselves--so does Lucius Malfoy.   


* * *

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

 

**Chapter Six -- Marked Futures**

 

May, 1976

 

In the first week of May, what seemed like thousands of pamphlets and leaflets appeared in a large bin beneath the notice board inside the Gryffindor common room. A piece of parchment was tacked onto the board with a large lion's-head pin, drawing the attention of whoever passed it.

_CAREERS ADVICE_

_All fifth years are required to attend a short meeting with their_

_Head of House during the week of 15 May to discuss their_

_prospective careers. Times of individual appointments are listed below._

The lion's-head pin seemed to bore into Sirius's soul with its small, finely cut ruby eyes. It made him nervous, though not as nervous as James's constant nonchalance made him—in the several weeks since Sirius had overheard James and Emmeline's conversation in the dungeons, he could not help but watch his friend for any outward sign that he was, in fact, deceiving them all. There had been none, not even a suspicious disappearance; it was as if James knew that Sirius knew. Remus did not suspect, of course; he had even asked James if he could borrow the boy's Invisibility Cloak, completely unaware that they were both sneaking round the castle to meet the same girl.

"Padfoot, what's wrong with you?" James asked, snapping Sirius out of his frantic ponderings. "You've been looking at me funny ever since I started studying."

"Just a surprise to see you at it, you know," Sirius said, chuckling weakly. "Thought you knew it all already." 

"Ancient Runes, lad," James said. "If Scade's telling the truth, that OWL ought to be murder."

"Right, right," Sirius said. "I guess I ought to start revising as well."

James nodded absentmindedly, already reabsorbed in Roman rune-scripts.

"Oi, Prongs," said Remus, who had just emerged from their dormitory smelling as if he had bathed in Collonius Crobin's Cathartic Cologne—which he very well might have done. "Can I borrow the Cloak again tonight?"

"Sure, Moony," James said, marking something in his book with his quill.

"Lads, lads!" said Peter, who had been looking over the scheduled advice sessions. "We've got four of the five slots on the fifteenth."

"The fifteenth?" James echoed. "After the Hogsmeade weekend?"

"I thought we wouldn't have it until next week," Peter replied with a shrug.

"I thought we were supposed to have had it by now," Sirius said slowly. "First week of spring term."

"No, McGonagall postponed it until this week—said it was probably for the best, anyway," Remus said.

"You said we've got the first four slots—who's got the fifth?" asked Remus.

Peter grinned at James. "Evans."

James reacted with only a raised eyebrow—it was further confirmation of Sirius's worst fears.

"What's wrong with Prongs?" Remus enquired. "I expected him to have nigh wet himself by now."

"He's studying," Peter said, smirking. "I heard Scade gave him a 'P' on his last essay."

"That was only because I handed it in late," James grumbled.

"If you hand your OWL in late, they give you a 'T'," Remus said sagely. "I suggest you speed up a bit."

"How would you go about doing that?" Sirius asked frankly. "Handing the OWL in late, I mean."

"Why are you asking me?" Remus asked.

"For James, of course," Sirius replied. "Bloody slug, he is."

"A Flesh-Eating Slug?" Peter asked shrewdly.

"Oh, quite," Sirius said airily. "An Evans-Flesh-Eating Slug."

"Ah, a particularly rare variant," Remus said with the airs of a doddery old professor.

"Why did McGonagall put the appointments off until now?" James asked loudly.

"She told the prefects—me and Evans, at least—that she wanted to hold off until Morley covered the Unforgivables with us, otherwise we'd all want to sign up for the Auror programme," Remus said. The young werewolf could not suppress an involuntary shudder—Professor Morley had demonstrated both Cruciatus and the Killing Curse on various animals, ending with a large dog. The pitiful howls of the canine as it writhed under the Cruciatus Curse still haunted most of the fifth year students. 

"At least Dumbledore wouldn't let him put us under Imperius," Sirius said darkly. "Said we were still a bit too young for that."

"How did you hear that?" Remus enquired mildly.

Sirius tapped his ear. "Ears to keyholes, Moony. It's the only way to learn anything nowadays."

Though he was sure the other boy did not notice, Sirius gave James a very deliberate stare.

***

The Caldwell Apothecary was an isolated shop in an obscure corner of Knockturn Alley, and it was not often that someone like Lucius Malfoy was seen browsing the tall shelves of sinister-looking ingredients. Still, Lucius assured himself, if anyone were to ask why he was there, he had a foolproof excuse; he was here to see the shop's proprietor, Govannon Caldwell—which was not entirely untrue, but was vague enough to adequately conceal his true motives.

"Eye of scaleshade, Mr Malfoy?" said an unctuous voice, the man's hot breath brushing Lucius's ear. He turned to see a short, wiry man with greasy black hair and a wide nose that looked as if it had been pounded into his face. "What are we brewing in the dark dungeons of your manor?" the man asked sardonically, stepping back and bowing his head sanctimoniously.

"It is none of your concern, Ozmand," Lucius said coolly. "Where is your father?" Ozmand Caldwell was Govannon Caldwell's son, a young wizard with a reputation as a foul, cruel womaniser and bourgeois miscreant. Ozmand smiled thinly, revealing a mouth of chipped, blackening teeth.

"In the back, Master Malfoy," he drawled, almost spitting the final two words. "If I am not mistaken, he has been...expecting you."

Lucius raised a white eyebrow in surprise. He had not notified anyone—least of all Govannon Caldwell—of his journey to London, in hopes of avoiding this very confrontation, but somehow the news had leaked out into certain channels. He would have to have the Malfoy family house-elves discipline themselves; gossiping about family business simply could not be tolerated.

"Really now?" he asked.

Ozmand nodded. "Oh yes, indeed. This way, Mr Malfoy." Ozmand led Lucius into a small, cramped back room where a large pewter cauldron sat above a fire—the murky brown contents were bubbling ominously. Hunched over the simmering potion was a squat, wizened wizard with Ozmand's flat nose and long hair, save for the fact that it was a filthy white in hue. Govannon Caldwell cocked a wide blue eye at Lucius.

"Mr Malfoy," Govannon rasped. "What brings you to my end of the Alley? Never thought I'd see a right proper old-family wizard round a commoner's apothecary, not in my life."

"I was referred to you," Lucius said crisply. "Jugson told me you can supply me with Blood-Purging Potion."

"Blood-Purging Potion? What do you need that for?" Govannon enquired shrewdly. "Have one of you lot caught the syphilis?"

"No," Lucius replied icily. "I've half a mind to take my business elsewhere if you continue to insinuate such foul slanders against the house of Mal—"

"Calm down, Lucius, lad. Your lot is far too frigid for the syphilis—and we've heard about your father in these parts. Dragon pox, is it?"

"Yes," Lucius said stiffly. "At least the Healers say so."

"And why, pray tell, aren't you swindling them out of their Blood-Purging Potion?"

"Bah, Mungo's rates are far too high for substandard potion-making—they will let anyone brew so long as they pass their Potions NEWT."

"Well, I suppose if you want your potion-makers...pure...you'd best come here. Only family-owned all-pure apothecary in all of England, you know."

"I do at that," Lucius said.

"You might want to Floo old Marcellus Avery—he knows a chap that can do your father better than Blood-Purging Potion."

"Excuse me?" Lucius asked, suitably curious, though careful to maintain the proper amount of restraint; there was no sense in giving Govannon anymore fuel for his delusions of standing.

"He's running with an odd gang, that Avery. Pure sort, offshoot of some old secret society—haven't caught a name yet, though—their ringleader, he's the one you ought to ask about. Powerful magic, he is. If anyone can help your father, it'd be him."

"I shall ask him immediately," Lucius said, thrusting a sack of Galleons into Govannon's hand, taking a flask of offered potion, and rushing out of the shop.

***

"Miss Evans?" said Professor McGonagall, reading off a scroll of parchment. Lily looked up, and then down at her watch—it was time for her career consultation already, she had thought she had more time.

"Yes?" she said nervously.

"If you would step into my office," McGonagall said, gesturing inside the door. Lily nodded and followed, wondering how she could move when her legs felt like they had been hit with a Jelly-Legs Jinx. She sat down in the wooden-backed chair in front of her Head of House's desk, consciously trying not to grip the plush cushion in the seat of her chair with her fingernails (which, she noted idly, really needed a trim and oh God she was rambling in her head which was never a good sign).

McGonagall stared at her through her prim, proper spectacles. "Miss Evans, have you given any thought to a possible career?"

She obviously expected Lily to have some sort of answer—and rightly so, since Lily was usually one of the most prepared and organised students in Gryffindor. Today, however, all of that preparation seemed to be for naught.

"Well...erm...I've always fancied medicine—you know, Healing," she stammered. "When I was a kid, I always wanted to be a doctor."

"Healing?" McGonagall asked, raising one of her thin eyebrows. "Well, let me see—you've certainly the marks for it, you know. Professor Slughorn is rather enamoured with your potion-making techniques, obviously one of the key components of Healing, and Professor Flitwick has marked you between Exceeds Expectations and Outstanding for the past five years...yes, I'd say that Healing is a reasonable choice...however..."

"What is it?" Lily asked meekly. She had never felt meek before, not even under the scrutinising stare of the stern Transfiguration professor.

"You are aware, of course, of the certain threat posed by He Who Must Not Be Named...and that he is targeting Muggle-borns."

"I've...I've heard, yes," Lily said—more firmly than she had planned, but the memory of her friends' timidity surfaced in her mind and steeled her resolve. Nothing had changed in the five months since the war had begun; the Dark Lord was still the elephant in the living room that no one spoke of, but the silence said more than any debate possibly could.  
"Unfortunately, the tension between Muggle-born wizards and those of wizarding ancestry has only increased since open war was declared...it will be quite difficult to convince St Mungo's to take on a Muggle-born Apprentice Healer."

"So now they won't hire Muggle-borns?" Lily asked shrilly.

"I did not say that—but we have had more than one student whose acceptance to the programme was recently revoked. Not coincidentally, all three were Muggle-born."

"What should I do?" Lily asked. "Give up?"

"There are some, Miss Evans," McGonagall said coolly, "that would have me tell you exactly that; that you should leave the wizarding world and never return, turn your back on your gifts and live a Muggle life. But I shall not, because if I did so I would not only be a failure as a teacher and mentor, but also a hypocrite."

"What?"

"McGonagall is not exactly an old wizarding name, Miss Evans," McGonagall said, smiling thinly. "Persevere, Miss Evans. By the time you apply for an apprenticeship, the war might be over."

Lily smiled back weakly, but she knew that neither of them believed the professor's words.

***

The Avery family might have occupied a rather elite spot on the wizarding social chain, but their fortune had long ago been squandered by rash relations. As such, finding old Marcellus Avery meant that Lucius would have to wander through rather unsavoury territory. He had not ventured into Scotland since Christmas, but the Pettigrew home was in an almost exclusively magical part of Inverness. The Averys, unfortunately, lived in Leith, which was far less diligent in its gentrification. A pity, Lucius thought as he passed three wiry youths with unmistakably menacing leers on their faces, though Muggle-baiting would be a rather bountiful pastime if he ever chose to holiday in the port.

"You lost, mate?" jeered one of the ruffians. Lucius ignored the snide enquiry, keeping his head up as he strode confidently down the street; Marcellus Avery's home could only be reached by an alley, like most Scottish wizarding homes. He was vaguely aware of the three youths following him, even as he turned into a narrow alley.

"He asked you a question, you doss cunt," barked another scoundrel as the trio moved to block the aperture of the alley. Lucius turned to regard the three coolly—they were so unimaginative, these Muggles. All three had the same hairstyle; shaved nearly bald. Complete alopecia had probably been the objective, but the simpering Muggles had no idea how to properly remove hair.

"And I've not the time to answer," Lucius replied pompously. The bastards would usually scurry off if one gave them a taste of social authority, but this crowd proved to be a particularly stubborn breed of mob. He contemplated reaching for his wand, quite disturbed by the sudden trembling of his hand. He really ought not to be getting so worked up, but he could not seem to halt the darting of his grey eyes.

"Bit of a snob, are ye?" one of the youths snarled, stepping forward. Unconsciously, Lucius backed away from him. It made no sense—or perhaps it did. Even the dimmest rat could be dangerous if one let his fingers stray too near its mouth. Lucius let his hand creep towards his wand.

"No chibs," hissed the youth who first jeered him, obviously the leader of their little gang. "Square go, eh?" The three began advancing on Lucius, drawing nearer as their smiles grew wider and more sinister.

"Aye," growled a wheezy voice from outside the alley. "Square go. 'Cept the wands, you see. Safety precaution. Don't want to be catching the diseases from you Muggles." Suddenly the three were on the ground, groaning with pain as their faces sprouted rather unflattering, squid-like tentacles. Standing as they fell was a short, wizened man with scraggly white hair and a curled, goat-like beard.

"Mr Avery?" Lucius asked tentatively, eyeing the old, hunchbacked man warily.

"I take it you're the Malfoy boy," Avery said. "Caldwell said you'd be by."

"Indeed," Lucius said, struggling to regain his composure. "About the dragon pox."

"A cure for it...yes, very hard to come by. Most wizards get it young, you see, and purge it right out of their systems. Old men like your father, unfortunately, tend to lack the vitality for such...strenuous recovery. Hence the need for a cure."

"May we go inside?" Lucius asked, glancing furtively at the fallen Muggles.

"Afraid, lad?" barked Avery. "The Muggles won't bite—not after what I hit them with."

"I am not afraid," Lucius replied, his voice shriller than he would have liked. "I just would rather not deal with their Aurors."

"It's a curse of me own. The Tentacle Curse. _Cthulhulexus_. I'm rather fond of it," Avery said, ignoring Lucius. "Let's go in, have a cuppa. It'll do the both of us good, it will." Avery moved towards the stone wall of the alley and waved his wand over it. As he motioned, a door began to emerge from within the brick wall, complete with a golden doorknob. Casually, Avery opened the door, stepping inside. Lucius followed—it was certainly better than the dilapidated telephone box that the Pettigrews used.

The Avery home was rather nice, considering how small it was, and Lucius found Avery's offered armchair quite comfortable as the old man directed the kitchen with his wand.

"I was told you know someone," Lucius said when the tea had been served, sipping lightly from his cup. "Someone that could help my father."

Avery did not reply until he had set his cup and saucer down on the table between them and exhaled momentously. "Aye, I do."

"Who is he?" demanded Lucius. "When can I meet him?"

"Are ye sure ye want to be rushing into things, lad?" Avery asked. "This is no longer a boy's game."

"I am twenty-two years old, Mr Avery. I am as much a man as I will ever be."

Avery leaned in close, leering coldly into Lucius's grey eyes. "Are you quite sure of that, lad?"

***

"Mr Potter, if you do not mind beginning..." McGonagall trailed off, hoping James would pick up the dialogue, but the adolescent boy seemed content staring off past her shoulder distractedly. "Mr Potter, are you listening?"

James shook his mind out of its wanderings, bringing himself back to focus. "Oh, yeah," he said hurriedly. "Careers."

"Indeed," McGonagall said humourlessly. "Careers. More particularly, your future career. Have you any idea which field you would like to pursue?"

"I was considering Dark magic, you know," James said airily. "Murdering small children, torturing the elderly, the whole thing sounds brilliant."

"I assure you, Mr Potter, in your five years at Hogwarts you have shown quite the penchant for torturing the elderly. Though I must warn you, the path of a Dark wizard is one requiring no less than seven NEWTs, with at least two Outstandings—one predictably in Defence Against the Dark Arts—inverse applications, you see—but also one in Potions. For poisoning uppity protégés, of course."

James gaped at her—her thin mouth remained absolutely motionless, but he could have sworn the stern professor had just made a joke.

McGonagall cleared her throat. "Jests aside, what have you considered? If you have considered anything at all, that is."

"I always assumed..." James trailed off. "I always assumed I just become an Advocate and work in my father's firm."

"Potter and Vance?" McGonagall asked. "Well, I must admit that your father's firm has done a great deal of lobbying on the behalf of Muggles and Muggle-born wizards. There are less noble causes you could throw yourself behind."

"Like Dark wizardry?" James asked mirthfully.

"Quite," McGonagall deadpanned, but this time her mouth threatened to smile. "Well, you certainly have the marks for Advocacy. Muggle Studies, History of Magic, Ancient Runes...yes, I'd say you're well on your way."

"Well, if that's all," James said, tentatively rising from his seat. McGonagall made a noise in her throat and motioned for him to sit down again.

"No, Mr Potter, that is not all. While I have no doubt that you would make a fine Advocate and it is sincerely what your father wants you to pursue, I have my own reservations about your complicity in this decision."

"What do you mean?"

McGonagall leaned forward. "Mr Potter, may posterity forgive me for saying so, but I have my doubts as to whether you have the...ah...predisposition towards rational debate required of an Advocate. You are not a dullard—I'm quite certain you've realised this very same thing, and as such I have to call into question the origins of this plan. That is to say, do you want to become an Advocate, or does your father want you to become an Advocate?"

James opened his mouth to reply, but no words would emerge.

"What do _you_ want to do, Mr Potter?" McGonagall pressed on.

"I..."

"Yes?"  
"I'd like to go back to Scotland—well, I mean here to Scotland—I mean—" James stammered.

"Scotland, Mr Potter?" McGonagall enquired. "Any particular reason?"

James sank into his chair, and if McGonagall did not know better she would have thought she had heard a faint whimper escape from his throat. Finally, he composed himself—at least enough to speak. "Well, my...erm...my dad was from Scotland, originally. My grandparents lived there too; we've this old house near Aberdeen. It's in a Muggle village, Godric's Hollow."

"How appropriate, Mr Potter," McGonagall said, the corner of her lip twitching. "What would you _do_ there, though?"

"Well...I rather fancied playing Quidditch, you know...but I can't be flying about forever," he said acquiescingly, drawing an incredulous glance that McGonagall soon suppressed. "Advocacy's not a bad job."

"Indeed, Mr Potter, but I'd rather not see you thirty-something and miserable simply because you, when you were very foolish and very sixteen, wished to fulfil what you perceived to be your father's expectations."

James smiled weakly; it was the only response he could offer.

***

Lucius had seen his father ill before, but never quite like he had become while Lucius had been in Leith. The dragon pox was in full force now, the acid green pustules raised and vibrant on Abraxas's pallid flesh. His long, drooping moustache and equally long and lank hair were both chalk white and occasionally Abraxas would grip the edge of his blankets and cough violently, spitting thick, black-green chunks of phlegm and what appeared to be infected internal tissue out of his mouth. At times, he was lucid, directing his favoured son in the management of the sizable Malfoy estate. This was not one of those times.

"Codfish!" the elderly wizard hissed through spittle-coated lips as he convulsed on the bed. "To be with bread when the spring is cold..."

"Of course, Father," Lucius said, wiping the Malfoy patriarch's mouth with a damp cloth. He could not bring himself to ask his father about Avery's disclosures. He had heard of the Knights of Walpurgis—what pureblood child had not? In fact, he had known his father was a member, having seen the white porcelain facemasks that they wore to their lodges. He had not, however, known that an ascendant Rasputinist was among their number. According to Avery, he had claimed a family seat that had been vacant for at least fifty years, but the name had escaped him. The elder wizard had also mentioned a gathering of the Knights near Wiltshire, one at which he might be able to secure a meeting—or at least a conversation—with the enigmatic practitioner of East European Dark Arts.

"Father?" Lucius asked when Abraxas's spasms had subsided.

"Yes, my son?" he rasped, his eyes glazed and dull but his voice sharp and sane.

"There is a meeting of the Kni—"

"Father! Lucius!" shouted a young, boisterous voice from the foyer, drawing Lucius's eyes to Abraxas's chamber door.

"Who is that?" Abraxas croaked. "Is it..."

"It couldn't be," Lucius said firmly, but the sound of booted feet moving hurriedly up the manor house's stairs put doubt into Lucius's heart. As they drew near the chamber door, Lucius stood to receive the visitor. The visitor, however, paid him no heed as he rushed into the room, whipping a turban off of his head to reveal a thinning swatch of white hair that starkly contrasted with his round, youthful features.

"I came as soon as I heard," said Quirinus Malfoy, his thick dragonhide boots smearing mud on the floor. "How are you, Father?"

"Perhaps you ought to come back later, Quirinus," Lucius said through gritted teeth. "Father has not been well."

"Nonsense, Lucius," barked his father thickly. "I've always time for my other son!"

"Indeed, Father, but perhaps you ought to rest—"

"Oh, give it a rest, Lucius," said Quirinus contemptuously. "Why don't you go fix us some tea while I catch up with our dear father."

"Of course, brother," Lucius hissed. "I shall do that at once." He spun on his heel and stormed out of the chamber, descending the stairs and directing the family house-elf—a woefully incompetent louse of a creature named Swallop—to the kitchen to prepare the aforementioned tea. He would go to the Knights' Lodge, with or without his father's knowledge. He and he alone would bring back a cure for his father.

Then they would see who spent their days supervising house-elves making tea.

***

As she glanced at the next name on her list of appointments—the halfway point, she noted with the grim mindset of a soldier on patrol—Minerva choked audibly. Steeling herself for the worst, she opened the door of her office.

"Mr Black?" she called out, staring intently at the corridor wall as if to pretend that there was no one present. Unfortunately, that had to remain a fantasy, for the black-haired youth had already risen cockily from his seat outside the office door to enter.

"Cheers, Professor," he said loftily, strutting to the seat before her desk and flopping into it lazily.

"I must remind you that, despite the rather inordinate amount of time you spend within this room, this is not your home or the Gryffindor common room, and as such I must insist that you conduct yourself in a respectful and polite manner for the duration of this advising," she said crisply.

"Right-o, gaffer," he said, and Minerva tried quite desperately to find a trace of derision in his voice—anything that she could use to put him in detention until OWLs had come and gone.

"I am not your gaffer, Mr Black, I am your Head of House. As such, I have an obligation to advise you as to your career options, whether you like it or not."

"Curse-breaker."

"Excuse me?"

"I reckon I'd make a good Curse-breaker. For Gringotts, you know," he said confidently. Minerva made a mental note to remind Horace Slughorn to be wary of the familial Black arrogance when it came time for young Regulus Black's careers advising. "Got the marks for it," he continued.

"Indeed you do," Minerva replied stiffly. "Though just because you can do the job does not mean you ought to do it, especially for the rest of your life."

"I like the idea," Sirius said simply. "If I don't like the job...well, it's not like I've a shortage of money, is it?"

"Again, Mr Black," Minerva seethed. " _Ability_ does not necessarily indicate _advisability_. Is there anything, short of professional hooliganism, that you would like to do?"

"I'm rather keen on Runes," he said. "Arithmancy's not too bad either."

"Forgive me for saying so, but I cannot help but notice how your professed interests are correspondent with the requirements for a career in Curse-breaking."

"So, what is it that you do, then? If a bloke comes in all unawares as to his future, you brand him a layabout, but if they've actually got an idea they must be lying?" His voice was particularly vicious, more so than usual—he had never dared to speak this way to a professor before; it was obvious from the slight tremors in his hands.

"Detention, Mr Black," Minerva said crisply. She had been right to expect trouble. "Your frequent outbursts are one of the primary reasons I remain sceptical about your prospective career in Curse-breaking—ancient burial magic, like any magic that has all but vanished from common knowledge, is extremely dangerous and extremely temperamental, and the slightest disturbance can result in a lost limb, or worse."

"I'm sorry, Professor," Sirius said honestly, his face in his palms. "I've not been having a good day."

Minerva glanced at him suspiciously, before allowing her face to crack into an expression of what she hoped looked like sympathy. "Mr Black, as your Head of House I am also obliged to serve as a...counsellor of sorts. I, too, was once sixteen, after all, and perhaps I might..."

"Help?" Sirius finished for her, his voice disturbingly raspy.

"Aye—I mean, indeed," Minerva replied, correcting her slip into her far-too-informal Scottish diction rapidly.

"You and James would get on," Sirius said wryly. "Sometimes he tries to pull that Jock tongue with us, as if he wasn't born and raised in East Essex."

"Does he now?" McGonagall said, remembering Godric's Hollow near Aberdeen. "I shall have to have a word with him about that, I suppose. Later, though. So, you seem to be quite enamoured with the idea of Curse-breaking, enough to brave detention with me to defend your choices."

"I suppose," he said.

"Well, I see no point in any further attempt to convince you otherwise, so I believe this advising is concluded. Have a nice day, Mr Black."

"Bye, Professor."

"Mr Black?" Sirius turned round, having already made it halfway to the door. "Your detention will be in my office Monday night. We shall discuss just what led to your outburst, among other things."

Sirius nodded, his shaggy mane of hair bobbing slightly.

***

"Lucius," said Avery cordially. "Good to see you."

Lucius nodded politely before stepping into the grand foyer of Walpurgis Hall—there were rumours that when the Hall had been intended to be a castle before the foyer had been built, when costs ran so high that it was simply finished off as one overlarge foyer. As he observed the finely decorated hall, complete with various obscure pieces of esteemed wizarding bric-a-brac, he felt a distinct feeling of alienation settle in his stomach. Though he was born to this world, he was still an impostor, a child amongst men of stature. He slowly drifted over to the wall of the foyer, where a few other equally displaced men were standing.

"Gentlemen," he said warily. To his right was a grizzled, beady-eyed man with stringy, greasy white hair and an equally stringy but far better-kept beard, leaning heavily on a serpent-headed cane. In his other hand he loosely gripped his white Walpurgis mask, which Lucius was noticing was never worn save for a few key events—Avery had told him of the Knights' recent drift away from the older traditions. Lucius recognised him from a soiree his father had held at the manor, before Quirinus had left for India with naught but an owl two weeks after the fact.

The other gentleman, a tall, willowy figure whose face remained hidden beneath the hood of his thick, coarse black robes, remained silent, but Lucius could just barely make out a courteous nod from within the folds of the fabric.

"Lucius," said the white-haired man, Arcturus Prince. He sounded old and worn; rumour had it that his daughter Eileen's shameful marriage had broken his spirit beyond repair—but perhaps it had been the death of his wife, Vivian. "I take it you are here to stand in place of your father? I did not know Abraxas's condition had deteriorated so."

"It has," Lucius said gravely. "I am afraid that it is part of the reason I am here tonight. I was told there was...someone who could aid me in the pursuit of a cure."

"Really?" said the hooded gentleman, his voice oddly high-pitched for a man. "How would one help, if I might ask?"

"I was told there is a Rasputinist among our number tonight," Lucius said calmly, and Arcturus drew a harsh breath. The eccentric and bizarre Rasputin was still quite a controversial figure in the Wizarding world—to those with proper pride in their bloodlines, he was a man who meddled too thoroughly in the affairs of lesser Muggles, to those with a narrow view of acceptable magic, he practiced perverse and corrupt forms of magic that had long since been outlawed in the civilised world.

"There is," said Arcturus, glancing furtively at the tall stranger. "Afraid he's not as inconspicuous as he once was, but the price of fame, eh?"

"Come with me, Lucius Malfoy," said the gentleman, reaching an arm round Lucius's shoulder and drawing him through the foyer, away from Arcturus Prince and his cold, assessing eyes. "We have much to discuss."

"What do you mean?" Lucius said suspiciously—he had not yet learned this strange man's name, and trusting him thus far was out of the question.

"What do you know about the work of Grigori Rasputin?" the man asked smoothly.

"He was a Russian wizard, manipulating the tsar and his wife while he remained their advisor. He wrote, as well— _A Treatise on the Nature of Death_ , _To Extend Our Natural Boundaries_ , _On the Experiences of Pleasure and Pain_ , _Debauchery and Righteousness_ , and _Purification through Staining_."

"And which work would you say contains the best remedy for your father's condition? Think carefully, now."

" _Purification through Staining_ ," Lucius said slowly.

"Ah, yes, a fine work detailing the applications of...questionable magic to the art of Healing. I am impressed, Mr Malfoy. It appears you know your wizardry."

"I am a pureblood, sir. Nothing less is expected. I assume you are our Rasputinist?"

"Indeed," the man said with a quiet laugh. "Dragon pox is quite a malady, but I daresay it is nothing I cannot alleviate, if not cure entirely. The question, however, is what you will do for me."

"Anything, sir," Lucius said determinedly. This was what he had come for, what Quirinus could not dream of doing—he was truly the good son, heir to the House of Malfoy, the one who would go as far as necessary to help his blood.

"Very well," the stranger said, and Lucius could feel the cold smile on his face even though it remained hidden by robes. "I request only your loyalty. When the time comes, and you will know when it comes, I shall ask for your aid and you must give it unquestioningly."

"I shall, sir," Lucius said, and he could not shake the feeling that promising anything to this unknown wizard was akin to throwing in with Satan himself.

***

"Mr Pettigrew, you have remained utterly silent for the better part of ten minutes. While normally I would revel in the idea of you or any of your motley gang of malcontents remaining silent for such an...extended period of time, you might have noticed that I have asked you a question—namely, what is it that you wish to pursue for the remainder of your life. As such, I feel it is entirely within my bounds as your instructor, your Head of House, and your careers counsellor to expect some form of an answer."

Peter whimpered pitifully in response, and McGonagall rubbed her temples exasperatedly.

"Must you be such a spineless wretch, Mr Pettigrew?" McGonagall said sharply, not even bothering to look at the boy as he shrank into his chair, staring intently at his hands with eyes that seemed far more watery than usual.

"I'm sorry, Professor," Peter whispered, his mind racing with vicious revenge fantasies in which McGonagall and Slughorn and Morley and Robinson and Evans and all the Slytherins and—yes, even Sirius were forced to admit his latent yet suddenly obvious superiority. There would be a lot of bloodshed, and beautiful buxom lasses would vie to feed him ripe grapes as Evans moaned dejectedly about her lost love Potter as Potter went and shagged that—

"No, Mr Pettigrew, it is I that ought to be sorry. I did not mean to lash at you like that...it has been quite a long day. Still, that's no excuse for my blatant lack of professionalism."

"Well...I've an answer now, if you'll hear it."

"Of course, do tell."

"I'd...erm...I'd like to go into the Ministry," he said quietly. McGonagall looked at him eerily before glancing over her notes—and his marks, likely enough. "Nothing high level, of course," Peter added hurriedly. "Not like the Minister or a Department Head or anything."

"Don't sell yourself too short, Mr Pettigrew," McGonagall said crisply. "I see no reason why you could not ascend to the higher echelons of the Ministry within a decade or two."

"Really?" Peter asked amazedly.

"I would not lie to you, Mr Pettigrew," McGonagall said.

"It's just...well...it's a bit of a bore, don't you think? Ministry work?"

"There is nothing wrong with a spot of the predictable," McGonagall said wryly. "Thought you may not be accustomed to it, considering the company you keep."

"I suppose," Peter said. "It's just...well..."

McGonagall arched an eyebrow, obviously having seen this dilemma before. "You are afraid that your friends will...ah...distance themselves from you if you decide to go into the Ministry."

Peter mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like "Sirius will make fun of me".

"Mr Pettigrew, I have no lack of faith in your ability, but if you insist on using Sirius Black's approval as some sort of career litmus test, you will likely find yourself knee-deep in human skeletons and strange infections of dubious origins. Please, for your own sake, branch out from your pack of cohorts and find something that _you_ enjoy, whether they enjoy it or not."

"Erm...I'll try," Peter said, intending to do nothing of the sort. James, Remus, and Sirius were his only friends—the only ones who did not take him for some sort of court jester, kept round the Marauders for amusement. He was Wormtail, after all, and no one could take that from him.

"All right," McGonagall said with an air of resignation. "This advising is concluded. Have a nice day, Mr Pettigrew, and remember that after Hogwarts, everyone...drifts apart."

***

It had been a week since Lucius had pledged his allegiance to the mysterious Rasputinist, who had not yet arrived with any sort of remedy for his father. Quirinus had not stayed long—he was still technically living at the manor, but he was out cavorting more often than not—and with the horrible sounds emanating from his father's bedroom, Lucius found himself spending most nights sitting in front of the fire with a bottle of fine brandy. It was an unhealthy habit, drinking alone, but of all the vices to have this one was by far the weakest of the Malfoy clan's numerous indulgences.

Lucius nearly dropped his glass of brandy when a violent banging shook the house, three hard knocks against the manor's huge doors. Rising swiftly—he was pleased to notice that the brandy had not yet made him dizzy—he strode to the doors.

"Who calls at such an hour?" he said into the Greeting-Horn next to the door.

"I do, Lucius Malfoy," said a high-pitched voice, and Lucius's blood ran cold. It was the Rasputinist. "I require your assistance."

Lucius's hands trembled as he stood back and waved his wand, opening the giant doors slowly. Standing in the doorway were three people—the Rasputinist, still hooded, a gaunt, pale man with oily hair that had been combed back, and a broad, oafish man. The oaf was carrying another oaf-like figure, which seemed to be bleeding profusely from a large gash on the side of his neck. The Rasputinist stormed inside, heading towards the kitchens with the oaf and the bleeding man in tow, but the pale man stayed in the doorway.

"Invite me in, Mr Malfoy," hissed the man.

"What?" Lucius asked, confused.

"Andolini cannot come in unless you invite him, Lucius," said the Rasputinist. "Do not waste time—if Crabbe dies, your father's cure dies with him."

"C—come in," Lucius stammered, and Andolini stepped inside, bowing deferentially. His smile revealed long, thick fangs where a wizard's canines would normally be. Andolini moved towards the kitchens and Lucius followed him.

The bleeding man, Crabbe, was spread out on a table in the kitchens, his robes having been stripped from him. Even without the gash in his neck, he was still quite damaged—hex marks and cuts were generously spattered across his body. Lucius noticed that both Andolini and the other oaf were wounded, but the Rasputinist seemed to be unscathed. The Rasputinist was waving his wand in quick, jerky motions, tendrils of green magic dripping from the wand to the wounds as the Rasputinist murmured a strange incantation.

"Will he survive, milord?" asked the standing oaf.

"Do not question the Dark Lord's power, Goyle!" sneered Andolini.

"Calm yourself, Andolini," said the Rasputinist—the Dark Lord—firmly, throwing back his hood as the wounds began to close up before their eyes. Lucius could see why he had remained hooded in Walpurgis Hall; his skin was bone-white, a stark contrast with the red eyes on his snake-like face. Truly this man had immersed himself in the Dark Arts, enough to violently change his appearance.

"Apologies, milord," said Andolini deferentially. "I merely wished to show my eternal gratitude for the progressiveness and generosity you have shown towards my own Clan Hengist and, indeed, all the vampire clans."

Lucius did his best not to physically recoil—a vampire! In his house!

"Of course you did," drawled the Dark Lord as he withdrew from the table. "Crabbe shall survive." His eyes flickered to Lucius. "But observe our rudeness! We have not yet introduced ourselves to our most generous host."

"Yes," hissed the vampire, turning and nodding to Lucius. "I am Andolini of the Hengist, as you might have surmised. The Dark Lord has promised us untold power and full wizarding rights upon his inevitable victory over the plebeian, impure masses of the Ministry."

"Gaius Goyle, Mr Malfoy. I was three years above you at school," said the standing oaf. "The lad on the table is Cassius Crabbe, he was with me as well. Both Slytherins, of course," he said with a toothy grin.

"Up school!" said Lucius, discomfited at the shrill tone in his voice. "I am Lucius Malfoy, this is my home." He sounded as if he was trying to convince himself rather than convey information.

"And we thank you wholeheartedly for your cooperation," said the Dark Lord.

"Forgive me," said Lucius shrewdly. "But I have not yet learned your name."

"Ah, a crude oversight of mine. I, young Lucius," said the tall, serpentine wizard, "am Lord Voldemort."

***

Minerva expected great things from Remus Lupin; a list, stellar organisation, basically everything she had expected and subsequently not seen from Lily Evans in the course of her careers advising. As such, she was understandably heartened when he withdrew a piece of paper from within his robes.

"I think this sort of invalidates this whole process," he said sharply, sliding the paper across her desk. She picked it up and began to read.

WIZENGAMOT PASSES "NO WEREWOLF LEFT BEHIND" ACT

"What is this?" she asked.

"From yesterday's _Prophet_ ," he said coldly. "New law, considering—well, you might've heard about the attacks."

"You mean You-Know-Who?" she replied.

"Sort of," Remus said. "There've been vampire attacks—slaughters, really—with the...the Mark over the villages. They say it's him."

"What does that have to do with this law?"

"I pay attention in History of Magic, Professor," Remus said, his voice tinny and cold. This was getting to him, far more than he would have liked her to believe. "So did the Ministry, I suppose. Every Dark Lord has three stages of non-wizard recruitment. Vampires, werewolves, then Dementors. In that order."

"But this law...it's about _employing_ werewolves."

"Did you read where? 'Designated Lycanthropy-Friendly Facilities,' they say. Camps, Professor. Those are bloody camps." His voice was increasingly harsh. "And if we don't want to work in the camps, that us skint—we're not eligible for the dole, now, they tacked on an amendment to redefine eligibility for non-humans. Something about a 'consistent state of humanity is required for Ministry financial assistance.'"

Minerva did not know how to reply. "Well...what are you considering, then?"

"Publishing. Writing, I guess. It's not the most...well, stable profession, but at this rate it's about the only thing I can do." Remus stood quickly, walking towards the door of her office.

"Mr Lupin," Minerva called out. "Professor Dumbledore will fight this, you realise."

"I know, Professor," Remus said, smiling faintly. "I just wonder if it'll do any good."

He left. The smile had never reached his eyes.

***

On the thirty-first of May, Lucius Malfoy watched his father's condition improve. The magic that Voldemort had performed in his house had alleviated Abraxas's dragon pox—not enough to cure it by any stretch of the imagination, but enough to keep him alive.

As he wiped the sweat and pus from his father's brow—Quirinus had, once again, vacated the premises before any real work had to be done—he heard the doors of the manor open and close loudly. Tossing the rag into the water-filled basin at his father's bedside, Lucius moved swiftly downstairs to the manor's foyer, where a familiar robed figure waited.

"Lucius," said Lord Voldemort.

Lucius paused. "Milord," he responded, bowing his head respectfully.

"Has your father's condition improved?" he asked.

"Indeed, milord, it has." Lucius did not raise his head.

"I thought as much," he said coldly, his face twisting into a lipless smile. "I require your aid once again."

For a moment, Lucius thought of his father, wondering who would take care of the ill wizard in his absence. He purged the thoughts from his mind. The Dark Lord would make arrangements, so long as he remained true and loyal.

"What is it you require?"

Voldemort's sick smile widened. "There is a...man in the forests of Wales whom I must speak with. It would be best if I had men to accompany me. You, Lucius, are amongst my most able and worthy followers, you are the one who welcomed me into your home when I needed your help. Lord Voldemort does not forget those who aid him. Aid me once more, Lucius, and you may take your place as one of my honoured followers. Together we will purge the Wizarding world of all those weak and foolish, impure and worthless, and in their absence those of power and breeding—men like you and I—shall rise up and take our rightful places as the true, open leaders of the magical community."

Lucius's heart leapt into his throat—this was what he had been taught all along, by his father, by Avery, by Slytherin House, and now was the moment in which he could prove to everyone how far he was prepared to go to defend and advance the name of wizard, the name of Malfoy. Quirinus would have no choice but to admit Lucius's superiority, he would be hailed by his father as the finest Malfoy, Narcissa's love would only deepen...

"I shall aid you, milord."

"Excellent," said Voldemort. "But there is one more thing you must do before we speak with Fenrir Greyback."

"What is it?" Lucius asked.

Voldemort's grin grew until it encompassed an inordinate amount of his face. "Do you trust me, Lucius?"

Lucius's grey eyes met Voldemort's red ones. "I do, milord."

"Pull back your left sleeve."

Lucius did so.

"Now," Voldemort said coldly, drawing his yew wand. "Give me your arm..."

***

The Gryffindor dormitory was not empty as Remus had hoped it would be—James and Sirius were sprawled out on their respective four-poster beds, each revising notes from their Ancient Runes class. He almost smiled; they always studied in the dormitory so no non-Marauders would ever get the impression that they actually had to revise to make the marks they made.

"Moony!" yelled Sirius. "How did it go?"

Remus smiled weakly. Of course, Sirius did not read the paper, especially not the Government section, so he would not know about the No Werewolf Left Behind Act. James might—he probably did, judging from the look of inquisitive condolence in his hazel eyes.

"All right, I s'pose," Remus said, collapsing onto his bed. "Where's Wormtail?"

"Out," Sirius grunted. "Think he's got a bird?"

"No chance," James said offhandedly. "Probably getting Potions help."

"Probably. He's really arse at Potions."

"You probably wish you were arse at Potions too, Prongs," Remus said. "Or have you not heard who our Potions tutor is?"

"Moony, you have to realise that I cannot think of what it would be like to be _bad_ at something—it's never happened before."

"Evans, isn't it?" Sirius said coyly.

"Indeed it is."

"Dear old Wormtail," sang Sirius, "succeeding where mighty Prongs has failed—"

"—and failed!" continued Remus.

"And failed some more!" finished Sirius.

"Shut it, both of you," James said. "How's Connie?"

"She's fine," Remus said. "She's been set a rather nasty essay from Morley, though, so she had to cut our date a bit short."

Remus did not miss the nasty look Sirius shot James, but James remained oblivious.

"Well, I'm off," Sirius said stiffly, rising from his bed and walking out of the dormitory quickly.

His exit gave James pause. "Is there something wrong with him? He's been getting all funny for a couple of weeks."

"Not that I can tell," Remus said, burying his face in his pillow.

"What about you?" James asked.

"What do you mean?" Remus replied.

"What did McGonagall really say? Don't give me any bullshit, all right? I read the _Prophet_ , I know all about that Let's Stick Werewolves in Great Bloody Camps Act or whatever it's called."

Remus felt something warm and salty well up in both of his eyes; he did not raise his head to face James.

"What did she say, Moony?"

"Not a damned thing, Prongs. Not a goddamned thing."


	7. Memoriam

  
Author's notes: OWL season approaches Hogwarts, affecting everyone from the Marauders to Snape to Lily and her friends. Meanwhile, Dumbledore recruits Alastor Moody and Sirius's suspicions lead him to uncover a secret.  


* * *

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

 

**Chapter Seven -- Memoriam**

 

June, 1976

 

Alastor Moody woke up in a bed he did not remember sleeping in, a dull, throbbing pain permeating the entirety of his body. The room where he was currently residing was white, stark white, and sterile—a hospital room. He was in St Mungo's.

"Mr Moody?" asked a kindly voice, undoubtedly one of the Healers that had attended to him during his period of unconsciousness. His dark eyes snapped open.

"How long have I been out?" he asked, his voice no more than a harsh growl. Speaking took effort, more effort than it should have.

"About two weeks, Mr Moody," the Healer said. "We admitted you with severe damage; curse- and jinx-related, mostly, but there was some basic physical harm done as well. You ought to make a full recovery, except..." she trailed off.

"What is it?" Alastor growled.

"It's your leg—your left leg. We think there might've been a Reductor Curse used near it, or on it, but...well..."

"Say it," he said, closing his eyes. He already knew the answer.

"It's damaged, badly damaged. Its dead weight; the foot is completely gone. You'll be able to walk, but only with a cane." To her great credit, her voice was level and methodical—it lacked any of the pity that Alastor had expected to hear from the Healer.

Alastor did not speak for a long while. "All right," he said finally.

"You've visitors, as well."

Alastor nodded. That would be Woodsbury, and likely Crouch as well. It was best to get this part over with, he knew. "Send them in."

True to his expectations, the two figures the Healer waved in were the pinstripe-clad Bartemius Crouch and the tall, straw-haired Eurig Woodsbury.

"Alastor," said Eurig gravely.

"Miss, we are from the Ministry," said Crouch fussily. "We'll be discussing rather sensitive information, so if you wouldn't mind busying yourself elsewhere..."

The Healer took the hint, however patronisingly it was delivered, and walked out of the room, leaving Alastor alone with Crouch and Eurig.

"Leg's gone," Alastor said grimly. "Or as good as. Imagine that, Cripple Moody. S'pose it's a better name than Mad-Eye."

"Mad-Eye?" Eurig asked amusedly.

"On account of my keen eye for weaklings, fools, and other ne'er-do-wells in the Office," he replied.

"On to more important matters, Alastor," said Crouch hurriedly. "Do you remember what happened?"

"What?"

"In Newcastle," Crouch said.

Alastor closed his eyes, sighed, and nodded heavily. "Aye, I remember. You've not had a report yet?"

"You're the only one fit to give one," Eurig said solemnly.

"No one..."

"Stanwood, Ainsworth, and Bagley all died," Eurig said. "Look to be spell-deaths—suffocation, immolation, the like. Bagley might've got the Killing Curse, maybe burned with the Muggle Liaison Office, but we won't know for certain until Necromancy finishes with the body."

"What about McGibbons? Derek McGibbons? He was our fifth man, he was."

Crouch and Eurig shared a look that Alastor did not like at all.

"What happened to him?" asked Alastor.

"What all do you remember?" asked Eurig gently, avoiding Alastor's question.

Alastor searched his memory—he would have to use a Pensieve later, to properly examine the events, but for now this would do—before he responded. "We were called to an attack on the Newcastle Muggle Liaison Office. At least seven wizards—You-Know-Who was amongst them. He was the one who sent up the mark. He got Bagley, I think. There was another one, not dressed like the rest, much paler—McGibbons was duelling with him, but the other man didn't seem to have a wand...he was tall, pale, gaunt. Vaguely Italian features, but far too pale to be Italian..."

"That matches description," Crouch whispered to Eurig.

"What description?"

"He Who Must Not Be Named has begun enlisting...unscrupulous elements in his little guerrilla war, Alastor," said Crouch.

"Vampires," Eurig said stonily. "The other man matches the description of one Liberatore Andolini, an Italian vampire of some notoriety. We'd heard that he'd travelled to England with some Hengist vampires, but we didn't know he'd thrown in with You-Know-Who."

"What about McGibbons? Did he survive?"

"In a manner of speaking," Eurig said sadly. "McGibbons is currently being held in Gromit Gaol pending further investigation. He's shown some symptoms of vampirism...it's something you'd best see for yourself."

"Aye, when they release me."

"Speaking of, we've no choice but to relieve you from active duty," said Crouch. "With your leg, there's really no possibility of you continuing to go into the field."

Alastor was silent.

"I know this is hard, Alastor, but it's for the best," Crouch said, and Alastor wanted to break every bone in his sanctimonious, moustached face.

"Hack it off," he said simply.

"What?" both Eurig and Crouch said in unison.

"Cut the leg off, replace it with a wooden one. It'll work better than this...thing...and I can go back into combat."

"But..." Crouch stammered.

"Are you sure that's what you want, Alastor?"

"Aye," Alastor said. "There's a war on. I didn't lose any limbs in the last one; perhaps I'm just overdue."

"We'll talk to the Healers," Eurig said.

They left soon after, leaving Alastor alone with his maimed leg and his memories of a brave, fallen friend named Derek McGibbons.

***

"Fucking Newcastle up in flames and they still give us OWLs?" snarled Sirius, throwing the _Daily Prophet_ into the common room's overflowing rubbish bin. Remus eyed him warily, as did Peter—Sirius had been prone to fits of anger recently, more so than usual, and no one seemed to know why they were coming about.

"It'd take an assault on Hogsmeade for them to cancel OWLs, Padfoot," said James lazily, propping up _Defence Against the Darker Arts (Yes, We Make Them Real Dark in Merry Old Albion)_ on his thighs. "Bastard things start tomorrow—both Ancient Runes and Muggle Studies first, since there's no practical portion."

"Better than Arithmancy with Runes," Sirius grumbled. "Half the Ancient Arithmantic numerals look like bloody runes."

"Well, Black and Potter and the rest of your cronies, revising at last?" asked an unusually haughty Evans from the stairway of the girls' dormitories. "I suppose Hell must've frozen over."

"Thought Mum would've written me had that happened," mumbled Sirius.

"Oh, Evans," cooed James sweetly. "I was only trying to impress you, but now it seemed such a loathsome and futile gesture..."

"That's about the measure of it, Potter, so why don't you bugger off?"

"Woe! Woe!" howled James histrionically. "How can I continue on when my love, my lady love, hast spurned me so!"

"You've rhymed, Prongs," Remus said grimly. "That's the last straw. We've no choice but to oust you."

"For shame, Prongs," uttered Peter seriously. "It'll be ousting or the rack, I solemnly swear it."

"Sod off, you two," grumbled James, returning to his position on the couch.

Evans blinked, staring at the four youths. " _Boys_ ," she spat contemptuously before striding out of the common room.

"What's wrong with her?" asked James, his voice thick with consternation.

"I suspect we'll never know," Remus said aimlessly.

James paged through his book some more before slamming it shut and springing to his feet. "I'm off, mates."

"Where to?" Sirius asked suspiciously.

"Kitchens, likely as not," James replied. "Want anything?"

"I'm fine," said Remus.

"Aye, I'm all right here as well," added Peter.

Sirius grunted a negative response, and James set out for the kitchens.

"I think I'll go see Connie about this," Remus said, closing his Divination tome gently. "She's ace at Divination."

"No snogging, you hear?" Peter scolded mockingly.

Sirius eyed Remus with something that the lycanthrope thought might be pity, but that made no sense at all to the young wizard.

"I'll be back later," Remus said, not taking his eyes off the black-haired youth as he backed out of the portrait hole.

***

The remainder of OWL Week, or Howl Week as it was called by those grizzled veterans of the Ordinary Wizarding Examinations, went much like the day before it—bursts of frantic revising (in the Marauders' case it was frantic revising disguised with disaffected posturing) and, in some cases, nervous breakdowns. Even the Marauders had felt the effects; Potter had come out in severe spots right before the Herbology practical, but that might have been the result of a spectacular Puberty Hex from Snape, who found himself dancing uncontrollably mere moments later. Pettigrew had commented on the spots and found himself dangling in the air by his ankle, a rather crafty attack that Potter had only recently added to his repertoire.

Finally, the last day of OWLs approached—the Defence Against the Dark Arts OWL. Like all the examinations thus far, the theory section was sat in the morning. Lily scribbled madly as she rushed to complete her last question.

"Five minutes remaining!" squeaked Professor Flitwick, his diminutive form making its rounds through the rows of students hurriedly scrawling answers onto their scrolls of parchment. Checking over her parchment, she returned to the tenth question, which she had only partially answered.

_Give five signs that identify the werewolf._

Lily shuddered in her seat. She, like everyone else, had read the _Daily Prophet_ that morning; there had been a werewolf attack with the green skull-and-serpent hanging above the house—the Dark Mark was the term the wizarding tabloid had coined. She frantically jotted down the first three she could think of—the shape of the snout, the pupils of the eyes, and the unusual tufted tail—and wracked her brain for the final two. She had a feeling "is a slavering, mindless beast intent on violence and destruction" was not an acceptable response. 

Eventually writing down two less-than-brilliant answers, Lily could not stop her mind from wandering to werewolves. They were horrible creatures, and especially hard to kill—Professor Morley had passed round a slab of rune-encrusted, enchanted goblin silver, the only sort that would activate a werewolf's (transformed or not) silver allergy. That had been a particularly odd class, mostly because Potter, Black, Pettigrew, and especially Lupin had all been eerily silent and nervous throughout the entire lesson. Come to think of it, they had probably scuffled with someone afterwards, because Lupin's hand was wrapped in bandages by the time they arrived at the next class.

"Quills down, please!" yelled Professor Flitwick. "That means you too, Stebbins! Please remain seated while I collect your parchment! _Accio_!"

Hundreds of rolls of parchment hurtled towards Flitwick with astounding speed, knocking him over—fortunately, several students hurried to help the old wizard to his feet. Lily, on the other hand, rose with the rest of the students and shoved her assorted things into her bag, which she slung over her shoulder, and walked briskly towards the Entrance Hall.

"Lily!" shrieked Bettina, hurrying towards Lily with Havalina, Winifred, and Elizabeth in tow. The other Gryffindor fifth year girls, it seemed, had scurried off to moon over Potter and his cohorts, while her particular group of friends had what she considered to be quite a bit more sense. "What did you think?" "Probably lost a couple of points on the werewolf question," Lily said with a false air of indifference. Thankfully, she managed to repress a shudder as the vicious creatures came back into conversation.

"I didn't have much trouble at all," Havalina said, sweeping her mousy hair behind her shoulder. "I'll have got an Outstanding, I dare say."

"How humble, Havalina," Elizabeth deadpanned. "Don't underestimate your abilities, eh?"

"No sense lying, Lizzie dear," said Havalina mockingly.

"Let's go down to the lake, it'll be a nice break before the practical," said Winifred pleadingly.

"Yeah, let's," agreed Lily. Together the five girls made their way to the lakeside, Lily skipping stones across the surface of the water as they chatted amongst themselves.

"Oh my, he's a swift one with those fingers, isn't he?" said Havalina wryly. Lily followed her gaze over to a spot beneath the grand beech tree that stood at the lake's edge some distance away from them, where a messy-haired boy was repeatedly releasing and catching a Golden Snitch.

"Ugh," said Lily contemptuously. "What a prize idiot."

"Still, nimble," Elizabeth argued.

Havalina grinned widely, eyeing Lily. "Are you saying you've never pondered it, Lil?"

"What?" Lily asked, not liking where this conversation was heading at all.

"Oh, come off it, you have to have..." Elizabeth said disbelievingly. "He's fancied you all this time—"

"Right, and have I ever returned that fancy? Ever?" Lily insisted, an unflattering blush rising in her face.

"Well, if you don't want him, I'll be happy to...ah...partake in the pottery, so to speak."

"Is _that_ what they're calling it now?" Bettina joked.

"I think it has some alliterative brilliance to it," Havalina replied, defending her newly-coined phrase.

"You would," said Winifred darkly, though her lips quirked with a suppressed smile.

"They're just so..."

"Mischievous?" Bettina added.

"Devilish?" Winifred contributed.

"Delicious?" Havalina interjected helpfully.

" _Immature_ ," Lily groaned. "I mean, Lupin isn't so bad—right pissy he can get sometimes, though—and Pettigrew's a spineless wretch, but Black and Potter? Total sodding juveniles. I mean, you'd think they'd just had their Sorting and not their OWLs, the way they carry on."

"Well, there's only one way to make boys into men, Lily dearest," Havalina purred. "Though I hear that Potter's a real animal when he wants to be."

Lily shuddered. "There're some things I never need to visualise, and one of them is James Potter's naked, scrawny, pasty arse performing any sort of coital action."

"I think he has a rather nice arse, as far as boys' arses go," Bettina said speculatively.

Lily looked at her, aghast. "Et tu, Betinna?" she said, voice full of mocking hurt.

"Oh, don't worry, Lil," Bettina assured her. "I think yours is much nicer."

"What a relief," deadpanned Lily.

"Anyway, where did you hear about Potter's...ahem...prowess from?" asked Winifred curiously.

"Didn't you see him at that after-party in February?" asked Elizabeth.

"No, not really," Lily said flatly.

"It was scandalous," insisted Elizabeth. "His hair was all mussed—"

"It always is," grumbled Lily.

"Well, more so than usual," Elizabeth replied. "Plus, there was blood on his lip."

"Yeah, but didn't he take a Bludger to the head?" Lily enquired.

"Ah, so you _were_ watching!" crowed Havalina victoriously.

"I just heard about it!" Lily said hurriedly.

"Still, I heard there were bite-marks on his lip," Elizabeth continued, "and his neck too."

"Aha! You know what that means!" Havalina said, nudging Lily.

"So if he's snogging someone, who is it?" Bettina asked.

"I know," Havalina said.

"How would you know?" demanded Winifred.

"My sister's in Slytherin, a seventh year," Havalina said.

"What does that have to do with it?" Lily asked, curious despite herself.

"You lot don't know?" Havalina asked, audibly surprised. "Potter's been seeing that sixth year—you know the one, don't you? The one he's always skulking about with in the dungeons?"

Lily was about to nod her head—she knew Emmeline Vance, mostly from the prefect meetings, and she knew her father and Potter's worked together in some barrister firm out in Essex—but the sight of Severus Snape scrabbling for his wand despite being slowed by what she assumed was an Impediment Jinx drew her attention away from the conversation at hand. Then she saw who had performed the jinx. Of course—Potter, with Pettigrew and Black chuckling sinisterly behind him. Lupin, to her dismay, had buried his nose in a book—true to form, ignoring his duties and basic human decency. She rose to her feet.

"Lily..." said Bettina warningly.

"You expect me to just watch?"

"Severus Snape is a git," said Havalina flatly. "He's earned what's coming to him."

"The fact that you say that ought to demonstrate why I'm a fifth year prefect," Lily said, trying her best to save her fury for Potter and Black.

"Still..."

Lily did not bother to hear out her friend; instead she stormed off towards the scene, which had already drawn a small crowd, some looking nervous and others looking excited.

Lily withdrew her wand as she neared the disturbance. "Leave him _alone_!"

***

"Who wants to see me take of Snivelly's pants?" James crowed. Though he appeared smug, there was an audible note of sullenness in his voice. Some of the students surrounding the scene cheered, but Remus could tell that James was losing interest in his little game.

"Go on," hissed Sirius. "Do it—the little thing deserves it." There was cruelty in the boy's voice, an anarchic disregard for anything and anyone that made Remus's stomach turn.

"Nah," James said loftily, waving his wand and letting Snape fall to the ground in a greasy, black robed heap. "Not worth the points docked."

Sirius and Peter both looked far too disappointed for Remus's liking, though the young werewolf felt something in his shoulders relax—the relaxation only increased when Snape scurried off towards a gang of Slytherins that were clustered near the castle.

"I'm heading to the kitchens," Peter said slowly. "No use sitting a practical on an empty stomach."

"I'll go with you, Wormtail," said Sirius, eyeing James suspiciously. "Never figured you one for House points and responsibility, Prongs."

"Well, you know me," James shot back. "Up school and all that!"

Together they watched Sirius and Peter head off towards the castle. Remus turned to James, whose eyes still lingered on the castle in the distance as he dabbed at his bloodied cheek with the sleeve of his school robes.

"Well, now that your shoulder-devil's off to nick food, want to tell me why you really let him down?"

"What do you mean?" James asked innocently, though his voice was too shrill for Remus to believe him—not to mention that he had halted his hand from running through his hair in mid-motion.

"We both know you don't care about House points," Remus said flatly. "And you'll forgive me for saying so, but you don't care about Snape's well-being either."

"Well..." James trailed off, hoping Remus would change the subject.

"Go on, I'm listening," Remus said firmly. "It was Lily, wasn't it?"

James shook his head stiffly, but the blush colouring his cheeks gave him away.

"I ought to have guessed," Remus said. "To think, your conscience is a redhead..."

"Fucking fitting, it is," James muttered under his breath.

"I suppose," Remus said loftily.

"Have you noticed Padfoot acting odd lately?" James asked, throwing himself back onto the grass, his head resting near Remus's trainer-clad feet.

"What do you mean?" asked Remus.

"He's been a bit cold lately, as far as...well, as far as everyone goes. I mean, he's never really come out and wished for the full moon before, has he?"

"Not that I can recall..." Remus said, pursing his lips thoughtfully. It was true that Sirius's statement concerning the lunar phase had been a bit thoughtless, even for the shaggy-haired youth.

"Plus, you know, the way he's been with Wormtail lately, real impatient, yeah?"

"I know what you're saying, Prongs," replied Remus. "Maybe it's just OWL stress."

"Maybe," James said, though there was a clear note of doubt in his voice.

"I'm rather famished," said Remus after a pause. "Why don't we go join Wormtail and Padfoot; hopefully they haven't cleared the kitchens out."

"Aye," James replied, standing. Together they walked towards the castle, laying the careless cruelties of Sirius Black to rest—or at least to wait—beneath the great beech tree.

***

On the fourth waking day of his hospitalisation, Alastor received a visitor whom he had seen in well over seventy years.

"Professor Dumbledore, sir," Alastor said politely. "What brings you all the way down from Scotland?"

The blue-robed wizard smiled from beneath his long white beard. "We'll progress to that in due time, Alastor. For now, how is one of the brightest Transfiguration students to pass through Hogwarts during my employment?"

"Please, Professor," Alastor said humbly. "I wasn't that good. Barely scraped an Outstanding on my Transfiguration NEWT."

"Ah, but you did make one, which is more than most can say," Dumbledore said, his smile turning solemn. "I was sorry to hear of your injury. Could the leg not be saved?" he asked, tactful enough not to indicate the stump of Alastor's left leg.

"It might've, but not so much that I would've remained active."

"Would that have been such a shame?" mused Dumbledore.

"It is if there's a great bloody war on!" snarled Alastor. "Sorry for my cheek, Professor, but we lost three Aurors at Newcastle—four if you count McGibbons—"

"McGibbons? He was killed?"

"Vampire bite," Alastor said gruffly. "No cure."

"What will be done?" Dumbledore asked sadly.

"I'll go see him—he's on a garlic-laced diet, it'll keep his strength down and suppress the bloodlust for at least another week—and then...well, then we'll take a short walk in the sunlight."

"Is there no other way?"

Alastor shook his head. "Office policy—we can't just send him home with a pension and a sympathy card," he said. "The whole circumstances of his bite are proof enough that the vampires have thrown in with You-Know-Who."

"Voldemort, Alastor," chided Dumbledore, who pretended not to notice Alastor's slight flinch as the name was uttered. Alastor had not been afraid of the Dark Lord before; but then he had faced him in a duel. He could still remember fighting Imperius as Ainsworth burned alive, the stench of smouldering flesh filling his nostrils—

"We're not all you, Professor, all due respect."

"Nor should you have to be," Dumbledore said kindly. "But fear of a name only gives way to unwarranted fear of the thing itself."

"It's not exactly unwarranted from where I'm standing—or not standing," he said pointedly.

"I completely understand, Alastor."

"I'd appreciate it if you would tell me just why you've decided to appear in my room, especially when you're the headmaster of a school at the other end of the island."

"Oh, don't worry about that—the students are in the midst of OWLs, and even if Voldemort were to attack, I do not think he would dare cross Madam Marchbanks—he had a healthy fear of her when he was a boy, he did."

"What?" Alastor exclaimed. "You knew You-Know-Who as a boy?"

"Yes, he was once a student—but that is not the reason I have come."

"Of course not," Alastor grumbled. Leave it to Dumbledore to change the subject once things got useful. "Why've you come, then?"

"The war against Lord Voldemort will not be won by the Aurors alone, Alastor—the Newcastle raid ought to have proved this to you if you did not know it before. Furthermore, the Ministry sees fit to act as if open war has not been declared, whatever their press releases might say, and they certainly have not addressed the slew of Muggle-born murders occurring in the five years between the Smith murders and Voldemort's return to Britain six years ago."  
"Six years ago—"

"I have no great hope that the Ministry will see the truth before it is too late, and with that in mind I have formed a secret society—an order, if you will, founded and consecrated on the very principles that the Ministry has claimed to embody since its formation: truth, liberty, and tolerance. It includes purebloods and half-bloods, wizards and witches, Squibs and non-humans, all bound together to defeat the Dark Lord Voldemort and those that would follow him, who would betray their very souls to aid his evil. I am asking you to join, as a former instructor and a friend, the Order of the Phoenix."

"Aye," Alastor said. "I'll do it on one condition."

"What?"

"No more ruddy speeches."

***

The afternoon Defence practical exam went swimmingly, according to three out of the four Marauders (Peter insisted that his examination had only gone pleasantly, as opposed to the more confident swimmingly) and, as such, they had spent the better part of an hour strutting about before Sirius and Peter returned to their vast quantities of nicked food. Despite the success of the noontime raid of the kitchens, Peter and Sirius had been forced to stash their plunder in the dormitory so that they were not late to their exam, while James and Remus had simply bypassed the kitchens in favour of not failing their exam by absence. Now that the exam was concluded, however, Sirius and Peter were dividing the literal fruits of their labours when Remus entered the common room, munching lazily on a red apple.

"Hallo, Moony," greeted Peter from his plush armchair. "Care for a tangerine?"

"Are those seasonal?"

"House-elves, Moony, care not for the fickle seasons of mortals," said Sirius enigmatically. "Have a peach."

"I'm quite happy with my apple, if you don't mind. Quintessential forbidden fruit, it is," he said, watching Sirius's eyebrows fly towards his hairline.

"Well, if you won't partake in the booty, do sit," Peter said, indicating the empty couch. Remus acquiesced, throwing himself onto the couch with the lofty malaise of someone who had just performed a task of great difficulty and emerged with only the slightest fatigue.

"Or sprawl," Sirius added cheerily, "if it suits you."

"Oh, it does," Remus assured him.

"Where's Prongs?" asked Peter.

"He's gone off to find that mystery bird of his," Remus said lazily. "The one he keeps sneaking away with."

"Oh," Peter said, fidgeting nervously. "I...erm...I left something upstairs. I'll be right back." As soon as the words had left his mouth, Peter scampered for the dormitory staircase.

Sirius remained silent, scrutinising Remus with his grey eyes.

"What?" asked Remus.

"Do you know who that mystery bird is?" enquired Sirius.

"No," Remus said.

"Have you asked him about her?" Sirius demanded.

"Yeah, sure," Remus admitted. "He just gave me this smile, said some load of shit about gentlemen not kissing and telling."

"And that was satisfactory?" barked Sirius.

"Well, yeah," Remus said, frowning at Sirius. "What's wrong with you, Padfoot? It's not my concern who he's snogging—"

"They're more than snogging from what I've heard," Sirius interrupted harshly.

"—snogging _or_ shagging, so long as he doesn't get her up the stick," Remus said loudly, speaking over Sirius's interjection.

"It'd be your business if you knew what I knew," Sirius said darkly.

"Then why don't you enlighten me, O All Knowing and Righteous One," Remus drawled sarcastically.

"He's shagging your girlfriend," Sirius deadpanned.

Silence. Remus stared at Sirius. Sirius stared back at Remus.

"That's not fucking funny," Remus whispered harshly.

"It's not supposed to be," Sirius replied.

Remus leapt to his feet, pacing frantically. "No, seriously Padfoot, that's _not fucking funny_. Prongs wouldn't do that—"

"I didn't think so either," Sirius said, clambering to his feet—it seemed only right to keep level with Remus now that the Kneazle was out of the bag.

"No, you don't understand—you couldn't understand—" Remus said, edging towards Sirius so frantically that Sirius was forced to step back.

"Look, I know this is really shitty, and I hate to be the one to tell you—"

"He wouldn't do that," Remus insisted.

Sirius backed up further. "Look, mate, people do stupid things when they think there's—"

"She wouldn't do that!" Remus yelled. Sirius was not sure when Remus had stopped pacing, but it had happened and the young werewolf shoved him violently.

Sirius had been shoved before. He had been shoved by Regulus—weak, pathetic shoves of whinging self-defence, the sort that barely moved him. He had been shoved by Bellatrix—violent, mocking shoves that smacked of domination games. He had been shoved by James—friendly shoves in the midst of boyish horseplay. Remus had never shoved him; now he knew why. He hit the smooth wall of the common room, the force of the impact bouncing him back towards Remus, who shoved him back again. On the second return, Remus swung at him, a wild blow that missed—an angry, unfocused punch.

Sirius stumbled to the side, stunned at his friend's reaction. "Fuck off, Moony! I'm only trying to he—"

"Fuck you! Fuck you, Padfoot! You fucking cunt, you fucking cruel fucking bastard—" Remus was almost frothing from the mouth like a mad dog, his eyes wild and hurt with the suppressed rage of a sudden betrayal, a year's worth of resentment towards authority, and ten years of lycanthropy and all its side-effects—physical, mental, and social. He swung again, and this time Sirius had to dodge to keep the blow from shattering his jaw.

"Look, I'm going to leave you, and you're going to calm down...if you don't believe me, ask James about it when he gets back. I'm not going to sit here and let you maim the bloody messenger."

Sirius stormed out of the common room, leaving Remus furious and dazed in the middle of the common room, possessed by the strange feeling that everything had gone horribly, horribly wrong.

***

Sirius did not know what he had expected when he decided he was going to tell Remus about James and Connie Barr's tryst, but it was certainly not an assault. He had to admit that it had probably been more of an issue with James's apparent betrayal than Connie's infidelity, though that could not have been an easy blow to take, but none of it excused what Sirius could only interpret as an attempt to take his one true, loyal friend and beat him to a bloody pulp. More loyal than James, he supposed, for at least Sirius was not off cavorting with Remus's girlfriend in his post-OWL glow.

"Well, Black, funny I should spot you down in the dungeons," spat the harsh, unforgiving voice of Snape from behind Sirius. Looking round, Sirius noticed that he was indeed in the dungeons of Hogwarts—funnily enough, everyone who ever wandered the corridors angry seemed to be relegated to its darkest depths.

"And what of it, Snivellus?" sneered Sirius. He needed a fight, needed one badly, and most of all he needed it to be with someone he hated instead of someone he actually gave a damn about.

"Bit out of your reach, isn't it? After all, you had your chance to come down here five years ago—but we had to blow that, now didn't we?"

"If you're talking about my Sorting, Snivelly, you ought to remember that we don't pick our Houses."

"I beg to disagree, Black."

"I'm sure you do—actually, I think I agree with you; if the Sorting was actually trait-based, you'd have been turned out on your greasy arse; can't imagine worthlessness and an astounding lack of hygiene being a prize trait of any House."

"You shut it," Snape hissed, his sallow face flushing a violent shade of pink. "You bloody Gryffindors, always encroaching on someone else's territory—"

"What're you on about? It's just you and me as far as I can tell," Sirius replied.

"Ah," Snape said slowly, a sinister sneer spreading across his face. "Well, if you absolutely _must_ know, I saw your cohort down here not too long ago—seemed rather...ah...occupied, if you catch my meaning, but I suppose that's why you lot call him Prongs; he'll stick it into anything with a pulse, won't he?"

Sirius felt a cold rock settling into the pit of his stomach. James. James was down here—with her, with Connie Barr. This was it; he had to find them, to prove it to Remus, to prove it to himself.

"I'll be back for you, Snape," Sirius growled, dashing past the Slytherin. Swiftly he moved through the bowels of the castle, listening for any sound of other people. He debated turning dog; unwise, considering the possibility that another student might stumble upon him.

There; a noise, a rustling of robes and something akin to a soft groan. Sirius crept closer to the source—the door of an empty classroom, slightly ajar. He reached a hand towards it, opening it further...further...

He threw the door open, leaping into the doorway. His cry of accusatory victory died on his lips, however. The face buried in the soft flesh of the girl's neck was certainly James's—the messy black hair gave it away, and the hastily removed spectacles in his hand did nothing to disprove the conclusion. It was the identity of the girl that silenced him. With her robes pulled down past her shoulders, her pale skin seemed to outshine everything in the room.

It was not Connie Barr.

It was not even Lily Evans.


	8. Things Fall Apart

  
Author's notes: Fifth year ends and things fall apart.   


* * *

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

 

**Chapter Eight -- Things Fall Apart**

 

June, 1976

 

It was Bellatrix.

Sirius stood stock still, his mouth agape. Suddenly it all made sense—the odd disappearances, the bite marks, the bloody conversation with Emmeline Vance, all of it. It had never been Connie Barr.

James had not betrayed Remus. He had betrayed Sirius.

"Padfoot?" asked James, having withdrawn from Bellatrix's pale neck only to see his friend standing in the doorway. "Oh, fuck."

Bellatrix smiled with her full red lips at her cousin, suitably satisfied with this turn of events. Sirius glanced at her, into her dark eyes, and ran from the room, the scrabbling noise of his footsteps echoing in the empty dungeon corridor.

"Sodding—hell, Padfoot!" James called out, starting after him. Bellatrix caught his wrist as he ran.

"Why are you rushing so, dear?" she asked, pursing her lips. "We've only just begun."

"Did you not—are you—Sirius just bloody well walked in on us!"

"He's a big boy, darling...maybe not as big as you," she added with a lecherous glance downwards, "but grown enough to understand the things men and women do with each other...and to each other."

"You're his _cousin_ , Bella," James said insistently. "Do you have any idea how much this is going to hurt him?" He realised he sounded eerily like Emmeline Vance and found himself wishing he had heeded her advice much earlier.  
"Jealousy is a terrible thing," Bellatrix clucked.

"Jealousy?" said James disgustedly.

"Cousins marry cousins, the Black way, the blackest way," she sang merrily.

"You're mad," James spat, disgusted with her and disgusted with himself. He dashed into the dungeons after his friend.

"Hurry back, James!" she cooed after him.

***

If he had to make the choice again, Peter decided that he would have stayed in the common room rather than fleeing to the dormitories. Perhaps he would have been able to stop the chaos that seemingly exploded the second after he left, perhaps not, but at least he would have been able to say he had stood by his friends. That was more than he could say now. Wormtail, the great coward, he mocked himself viciously, marauding swiftly away from danger.

He slowly descended the staircase back into the common room, having heard the shouts of Remus and Sirius die out some minutes before. He peered into the common room, safely concealed by the angle at which he stood in the staircase. There, both hands pressed firmly against the wall and head bowed, was Remus. Peter edged out of the staircase and into the common room proper.

"Moony?" he asked timidly. "What happened?"

"Pads and I," the young lycanthrope forced out of his throat. "We had a bit of a row."

"What over?" Peter asked gently.

"Prongs's bird," Remus said quietly.

"So..." Peter said awkwardly. "You knew too?"

Remus whirled round, eyeing Peter with his blue eyes. "What?"

"I mean, you must've told him, that's why he's so mad—"

"Wormtail, what're you talking about?"

"Wait..." Peter paused, his brow furrowing. "Who do you _think_ it was?"

"Padfoot said it was...it was Connie," Remus said darkly, sliding down the wall until he was seated on the common room floor.

Peter almost laughed; the expression of mirth was stopped by the realisation that two of his best friends were possessed of a very wrong idea of their other friend's amorous activities.

Remus misinterpreted the look in Peter's eyes. "It is, isn't it," he said, his voice hollow and sad.

"No!" Peter said hurriedly. "It's not her at all!"

"Who is it then?" Remus demanded.

"It's Padfoot's cousin—the crazy one. Bellatrix."

Remus was silent; he worked his mouth open and shut soundlessly until he could muster the presence of mind to speak.

"Oh," Remus said at last. "Well. Bollocks."

***

James ran, dashing and twisting through secret passageways and hidden corridors, trick staircases mysteriously aligning in his favour mere moments before he had to climb them. It was as if the castle itself wanted him to arrive at the portrait hole before Sirius—perhaps it detected his genuine regret and worry, or perhaps it simply wanted to see what excuse he might possibly have concocted to explain to the other Gryffindor youth why he was spending an inappropriate amount of time with the beautiful (though obviously batty) Bellatrix Black.

Somehow, he succeeded; when he arrived at the portrait of the Fat Lady (who had, most fortunately for him, decided to visit some other painting for the day) Sirius was nowhere to be seen. The other boy was not far, however, as James could just barely hear his footsteps rattling through the corridors. Sirius rounded the corner.

"Padfoot—" James choked on his words as he saw the hate, the hurt in the other boy's grey eyes. And then he found out why Sirius' Animagus form was a dog. Sirius leapt—no, _pounced_ —and tackled the other boy. James's head hit the stone floor, a warm pain spreading through his head as Sirius reared back and punched him in the mouth.

"Oh, _boys_!" shrieked the hysterical voice of the Fat Lady, having returned early from her afternoon socialising to discover two of her Gryffindors engaged in a brawl.

If Sirius had heard the painting's protests, he pretended not to, choosing instead to land another blow on the bridge of James's nose—the black plastic bridge of his spectacles snapped cleanly in two as his fist made contact with it. James did not fight back; he did not even try to protect his face from his best friend's attacks. It was thus that Evans found them, Sirius straddling the fallen James, hurling punch after punch at his friend's face and body, a look of unmitigated fury in his eyes. He leaned forward to growl something, his face less than an inch from James's, and Lily snapped out of her shocked daze.

"What the bleeding—Black, get _off_ him!" she insisted furiously. When Sirius ignored her, she drew her wand—" _Emoveo_!" she shouted, sending Sirius flying away from James.

James rolled over so that he was on his hands and knees, scrabbling to his feet as quickly as he could.

Lily maintained her emerald-hued glare. "Which one of you wants to explain to me just what all this is about?" she asked coldly.

Sirius growled wordlessly.

"All right, Black. Potter, care to take up for your verbally impaired crony?" she demanded. At her enquiry, James's face twisted into a pained, stricken expression, and he tasted blood on his lip. He ran, Sirius's snarled admission rattling in his head.

" _I loved you the most_."

***

Remus and Peter were waiting when Sirius climbed through the portrait hole, their expressions masks of silent apology and nervous worry, respectively. Sirius knew that they knew what had happened—he had not been particularly quiet about what he had done, and now he owed Remus an—

"Don't apologise, Padfoot," Remus said quickly, his eyes locked on Sirius's. "Not to me."

"How did you know—"

"You weren't quiet about it," Peter said.

"No, I mean about...you know..."

"About Prongs and your cousin?" Remus said, his voice rather high-pitched. Sirius flinched openly, but he nodded.

"I knew," Peter admitted ashamedly, his eyes downcast. "I've known for a while now, since Valentine's."

"Wormtail told me...after our row," Remus added, avoiding Sirius's eyes for the first time since their conversation had begun. "He walked in on them once, in the Shrieking Shack."

"He didn't tell her—" Sirius began angrily.

"No!" Peter insisted. "Of course not! I don't think he even _liked_ her, Pads, she was just..."

"A tart?" Sirius said harshly.

"Well...well, yes," Remus said. "I suppose that's it exactly."

Sirius threw himself into an armchair, rubbing his temples furiously. "I honestly don't know if that's better or worse than him actually caring about her. I really don't."

"Have you considered that...erm...that maybe she...enticed him into it?" Peter added meekly.

"Yeah," Remus agreed enthusiastically. "I mean, Prongs was probably coming off a hard blow from Evans and she just...well, preyed on him."

"Like a bird of prey!" Peter interjected.

"Or a boggart," Remus agreed.

"More like a Dementor," Peter concluded darkly.

Sirius, furious as he was, could not help but let the ghost of a smile crack his face at the image of his sinister cousin floating about in the raggedy robes of the Azkaban guards, but it only took a moment for him to suppress it. "He ought to have told us," he said firmly.

"I won't deny that, Pads," Remus said. "But maybe, you know, physical assault wasn't the best course of action."

"Bit rich coming from you, Moony," Sirius said—there was more venom in his voice than even he had anticipated.

"I was wrong too," Remus admitted, "and I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you lot earlier," Peter said quietly.

"I...I ought to find Prongs...to settle things," Sirius said awkwardly.

***

Lily had never seen Potter run from anything, let alone a fifteen year old girl with a wand, nor had she seen Black so violent—or so angry with Potter. He glared at her as he barked the password and climbed through the portrait hole, leaving Lily with her wand drawn in the middle of the corridor. There was really only one thing to do. She walked briskly through the corridor, hoping Potter might slow down or at least be courteous enough to leave a trail for her to follow. He did neither.

She traversed the winding corridors blindly, asking whoever she saw where James Potter was—in the rare event that said person did not know the young troublemaker, she provided an unflattering description of the weedy bloke until finally—

"I've not seen him, but he's likely in the Owlery," said Emmeline Vance, who had crept up behind Lily when she was not paying attention.

"What?" Lily asked, startled at the sudden contribution.

"That's where he goes, you know, when he righteously bollixes something. When he knows it's his fault and doesn't need anyone reminding him of it."

"I just saw him run—"

"Black attacked him, did he?" Emmeline said, a tone of bored disdain audible in her voice. When she sighted Lily's amazed look, she sighed. "I'd rather expected it, truth be told. Of course, If I'd warned him once I'd warned him a thousand times, but did he listen?" she asked aimlessly.

"What did he do to make Black so mad?" Lily asked.

Emmeline studied at her sadly. "Perhaps you'd best ask him. The Owlery, mark my words," she said, striding off through the corridors, away from Lily.

Lily stood rooted to the stone floor, though she soon regained the presence of mind necessary to hurry towards the Owlery. She climbed the tower steps easily enough, only to find when she turned the large bronze doorknob that the door was locked. She drew her wand hastily.

" _Alohomora_ ," she uttered, turning the doorknob again, only to have a foul-smelling, greenish substance shoot out of the keyhole and drench her hand and the sleeve of her robes. She raised her hand from the doorknob, catching the pungent odour of—"Stinksap," she hissed derisively. "Typical Potter." Nevertheless, the door opened when she tried it again.

The Owlery was a rather expansive room, and as such Lily did not immediately notice anyone hiding within it—the telltale smell of burning magical tobacco, however, clued her in to someone's presence.

"Potter?" she called out. "Are you in here?"

"Evans?" replied a voice from behind several crates of owl feed.

Lily followed the voice, peeking round the edge of the stack to see Potter sitting against the Owlery wall, a long wizard's cigarette clutched betwixt the index and middle fingers of his right hand.

"I didn't know you smoked, Potter," she said with as much disdain as she could muster.

He shrugged. "Just started last week. Pa—Sirius started after Easter, and you find yourself smelling like them more and more when your roommate smokes, so, you know, why not?"

"Indeed," Lily deadpanned.

"Why? Want one?" he enquired, offering the pack to Lily with his left hand.

Lily almost declined immediately (what would her father think?), but paused for a moment. "Sure," she said. "Why not?" She took one long stick from the pack and placed it between her lips, pulling her wand up to the tip—

"No, you can't do that," Potter said, aghast. "You've got to light it properly." He held up what appeared to be a silver inkpot that had been cast in a cylindrical mould rather than the usual bowl mould. The opening at the top was far smaller, though its contents appeared just as black. He held the device to the tip of the cigarette. "You might want to move your wand," he said, pointing the lighter so that it was parallel to Lily's face. He pressed a button on the side, and a mountainous jet of orange and blue flame leapt out of the opening, igniting the tip of the cigarette as she jumped back. The shock had caused her to suddenly inhale; she spent a good minute turning green and shaking with huge, hacking coughs that futilely worked to expunge the smoke from her lungs.

"What the hell was that?" Lily demanded when she had recovered, yanking the cigarette out of her mouth and holding it as one would hold a quill.

"It's a lighter," Potter said slowly, as if she were a particularly slow child. "You use it to...light things—"

"Oh, shut it, Potter," Lily snarled. "Anyway, what happened over at the Fat Lady?"

Potter eyed her warily, ignoring the question. "How did you know I was up here?"

"What, you mean besides the bloody Stinksap?" Lily replied with a dry chuckle. "Emmeline Vance—"

"Emmeline sent you? I ought to have known," he said darkly.

"She didn't _send_ me, Potter, I came of my own free will—no matter how much I'm regretting it now."

"Oh, Evans, you really _do_ care!" James said saccharinely, though there was a softness in his hazel eyes that she had not seen earlier.

"Bugger off, Potter, between that little show down by the lake and this escapade, I'm beginning to think you need some time in St Mungo's. A bloody mad dog, you are."

"Honestly, I think that's more Sirius than me," muttered Potter. Lily looked at him quizzically, but he offered no explanation.

"Well, are you going to tell me what it was about?"

"Why do you care?" Potter asked. "I mean, not that the idea of you having some concern for my well-being and state of existence doesn't warm my innards, but considering our...erm...spotted history, I really can't imagine you give a load of Doxy droppings."

"I just want to know if I'm going to have to expect trouble later," she said resolutely—so resolutely that she almost convinced herself.

"Fine," Potter said, letting his cigarette burn. "First Hogsmeade visit of the year, way back in October, I met this bird. Really pretty bird, too, but her personality left...well, quite a lot to be desired."

"So you started seeing each other?" Lily said, filling in the blanks.

Potter laughed coldly. "Not quite. We started snogging, that's the best way to say it. I used her, she used me...didn't realise what she was using me for, at first, but that only took about a month or so to figure out. November, it was. She went and started a little row in the dungeons; told me later she was trying to provoke me. She used different words, of course, lots of sing-song bollocks about my 'animal side' or whatever..."

Lily had ceased paying attention to Potter's digressions, instead putting the pieces together—the dungeons, November, a row...

"Bellatrix Black. The bird—she's Bellatrix Black," she said disgustedly.

Potter nodded; there was both sadness and pride in the gesture.

"What's _wrong_ with you, Potter?" Lily spat. "She's mad! She's a total nutter!"

"Yeah, I was stupid," he admitted, "but have you seen her lately? She's got... bloody grapefruits nailed to her chest!"

"You pig," she snarled vindictively.

"Look, that's not the point. I know I was stupid, I know she was crazy, I know that all now...back then, all I saw was..."

"Getting a piece of fanny," Lily said viciously, eyeing Potter as one would eye a particularly foul piece of rubbish.

"Anyway," Potter said over her voice. "This continues on fairly uninterrupted—Emmeline Vance finds out, of course, since she shares a ruddy dormitory with her—"

"And Havalina's sister, which would explain that development," Lily added, more to herself than to Potter.

"I suppose. Then we're at Valentine's Day, nineteen seventy-six. Bella and I—"

"Bella, is it?" Lily sneered.

"We've moved past simple snogging, if you catch my Snitch, and who else walks in on us but Wor—Peter," he said.

"Pettigrew?"

"No," Potter deadpanned. "The other Peter I regularly associate with. Back to the story; Peter walks in, I swear him to secrecy, the whole thing. We continue on merrily, which brings me to Emmeline warning me that Sirius is going to find out, that it's been Bella's plan all along, and this is all going to end terribly."

"Which it did," Lily added helpfully.

"Well, yes, but—I'd assumed that it would only be a problem if I actually...you know, _loved_ her."

"And you didn't?"

"Of course not," Potter said quickly. "Hell, I don't think I even liked her! She was just...there."

"And a tart," Lily added crisply. "We mustn't forget that. Bellatrix Black, Easiest of the Easy—"

"—the Slytherin Slut, yes, yes, I've heard," Potter said. "Not that I haven't benefited from that little smidgen of truth."

"So what happened next?"

"After the Defence practical, I head down to the dungeons—to our usual place—to see if maybe she fancies a quick snog or something and, true to form, she does. Just as things are getting...well, frisky, Sirius pops in, gives the whole bloody mess one look and runs for the common room. I make it back before him—don't ask me how, Evans, I'd have to kill you—and he attacks me. Enter you, exit me."

"I see," Lily said, frowning. "Why did you run? Why didn't you hit Black back?"

"Because...because I'm not sure he was wrong to be hitting me," Potter admitted, bowing his head mournfully. "I shagged his cousin. Not even the nice one, either; I had to pick the stark raving mad one."

Lily squirmed at Potter's frankness. "So why are you telling me all of this?"

"You asked, didn't you?"

"Yeah, but you never had to tell. Why did you?"

Potter sighed. "I...I guess I want help—maybe not help, but maybe...I want to know that maybe I wasn't as wrong as I think I am, that maybe this can all be fixed." His face had returned to that pained, twisted expression of grief she had seen on his face before he had run from Black and her. This was James Potter, humbled and alone, in need of someone...

She knew it could be her—it would be so simple, to reach over and cradle his head in her arms like she had done for the neighbours' boy when he had torn up his leg riding his bicycle. There were words, reassuring words that despite their lack of Latin roots could work a healing magic of their own, and she knew these words—she knew they would help him. And suddenly she remembered the cold, gleeful cruelty on his face as Snape choked on a flood of pink bubbles, saw Snape hanging in the air as Potter nursed a bloodied cheek and his own wounded pride, saw Potter's hard hazel eyes appraise her as he so casually decided to humiliate her with an all-too-public request for courtship. She stood and flicked her smoke onto the floor of the Owlery, grinding it into the stone with her foot.

"Maybe if you thought about someone else instead of yourself, for once, you wouldn't fuck things up so badly."

She walked away.

***

The last week of term passed slowly, far too slowly for Peter's liking. Perhaps it would have passed faster had his three best friends been on speaking terms—but they were not, and Peter did not find it fruitful to wallow in what was not and could not be. Truth be told, Remus was not the source of this discord—he simply could not decide whether to take sides with James or Sirius, so he chose to take neither, which made it decidedly awkward for Peter to be the only Marauder communicating with any other Marauder. Sirius, whatever he had said after Remus and Peter had spoken with him, had decided that James had been entirely wrong to associate with Bellatrix, carnally or otherwise—a sentiment that James did not disagree with, judging solely from the guilty glances he occasionally shot his estranged friend.

This selfsame estrangement was the reason that, on the last Friday before the Monday departure of the Hogwarts Express, Peter was playing wizard's chess with Remus instead of merrily wreaking havoc on the school with the combined power and cunning of the Marauders.

He moved a piece in silence.

Remus countered quickly. "They're still not speaking to one another, are they?" he asked quietly.

Peter shook his head stiffly. "Padfoot is holed up in the dormitories, and Prongs is out."

"Resolving things, I suppose," Remus said sadly.

They moved their pieces one after the other, and it became apparent to Peter that neither of them were playing to win as much as they were playing to prolong the game for as long as they could.

"Moony?"

"Yes?"

"...When did it come to this?" Peter asked, blinking away the oddest film of fuzziness from his vision. He did not know what it was. "I mean, less than a year ago we were all throwing ourselves into the whole Animagi thing...we were like brothers, Moony."

"Better than," Remus added. "I think...I think that's why Pads is taking this so badly."

"What?"

Remus moved a piece and sighed. "Padfoot's the only one of us that actually has a brother—look how that's gone for him. They hate each other—well, at least Padfoot hates him. That whole relationship, it's beyond saving. With Prongs, though...Pete," he said, using Peter's given name. "Sirius loves James, loves him like a brother, even if he won't admit it. It goes deeper than what he has with you or me—don't take offence, mate, but we're his friends and James is his brother. Thicker than blood, they are. I think—I think Sirius's problem isn't that James betrayed him by shagging his cousin, but that Bellatrix betrayed him by shagging his brother. And he can't handle that."

"But why is he so mad?" Peter enquired. "I mean, Bellatrix probably _knew_ all of that, it was probably the reason—"

"Sirius thought that James was...with Connie, before he realised the truth. He'd spent months suspecting James, trying to hate James—it was too much trouble for him to switch that all over to Bellatrix..."

"Too much trouble..."

"Our Padfoot's many things," Remus said quietly. "But empathetic is not among them. James is going to have to confront him, one way or another."

At that moment, James climbed through the portrait hole, what appeared to be a brilliant red handprint plastered on his face.

"It's done, mates," he said, rubbing the mark. "We're done, she and I."  
"All right," Remus said. "We're not the ones you ought to tell, though," he added, gesturing at the staircase.

James nodded. "I know." His posture stiffened and he walked confidently towards the staircase.

"Oi, Prongs," Peter yelled. James turned to look at him, and the boy felt the colour rising in his round cheeks. "You—I know you know what you're doing, mate," he said quickly. "It's the right thing, it is."

Peter expected castigation or a snide remark—instead, James smiled, genuinely smiled. "Cheers, Pete."

He shrugged as his friend ascended the staircase. He was Peter, and upon his rock they would build their bonds.

***

"Pads?" called a voice from the doorway. Sirius turned over in his four-poster. That was James, he knew it. The voice had feet; it moved into the dormitory and over to his bed, taking a seat at the foot. "Are you asleep, Padfoot?"

Sirius did not reply.

"We're done, Padfoot. I chucked her, less than an hour ago."

Sirius remained quiet.

James kept silent for a moment, seemingly searching for the words to use. "I fucked up, Sirius," he said gravely. "I know I did. I ought to have told you right away, when she first came to me—that's what I ought to have done. But I didn't. I don't know if this is a good or a bad thing, but, for me, it was never about her or you...it was always about me, about me getting my hole and nothing else. For her, I think it was about hurting you—through me, I guess. And she was right. You were hurt," James cut himself off; Sirius heard him swallow hard before he continued, "and it was my fault. Her fault. Our fault. Her idea, but I ought to have seen it coming. If I'd known—if I'd known, I would never have done it. I hope you believe me, Pads, because if you don't...well, I'll have fucked up much more than I thought, won't I have done?"

James fell quiet, waiting for some sign that Sirius had heard him. He gave none. James rose from his spot at the foot of Sirius's bed, sighed heavily and began walking towards the doorway of the dormitory.

For a brief moment, Sirius considered calling out, considered making some terrible joke about forgiving James only if he would stop chasing his relatives. He almost did it just to see the look on James's face or, better yet, the laughter that would bubble from the bespectacled boy's mouth like a boiling potion.

Instead, he let James walk away.

***

"Oi, you lot!" Lily shouted at two Gryffindor third years—Shacklebolt and Callahan again, she noted with disdain—as they fiddled with their wands on the platform at Hogsmeade Station. "Into the train!" The two boys took one look at her (she was suddenly aware that she must have looked very severe, having pulled her dark red hair into a sloppy, McGonagall-esque bun that morning) and hurried into the scarlet locomotive.

"Careful, Lily," said Havalina, coming up behind her with a rather cheery spring in her step, despite the heavy trunk she was dragging behind her. "No sense taking out your little post-OWL frustrations on the ickle thirdies."

"Quiet, you," Lily snapped, though her mouth had already spread into a smile. "I've got us a compartment—it's the one with my trunk in it."

"How'd you manage that?" she asked.

"Benefits of being a prefect," Lily said, grinning and touching the lion-and-shield badge on her robes. "You'll get the girls, won't you? I've got duties."

"All right," Havalina said with a nod before boarding the train. Lily glanced round quickly—Lupin had not shown his face yet, and the Gryffindor prefects were supposed to be making sure there were no lollygaggers on the platform. The one positive effect of Potter's dalliance with Black's mad cousin was that its discovery had seemingly fragmented the infamous duo (and quartet, Lily noted, remembering the forlorn looks that had characterised both Lupin's and Pettigrew's faces for the preceding week) beyond repair, or at least beyond the ability to collaborate and execute a devastating bout of mischief. Though they had seemed rather conspiratorial at last night's Leaving Feast...

Lily found herself suddenly knocked to the side as the tall, beak-nosed form of Rodolphus Lestrange walked past her—or, more accurately, into her.

"Well, pardon me," Lily grumbled under her breath. Apparently she had not been quiet enough, for the Slytherin fifth year turned about to glare at her. It would have been far more intimidating, Lily supposed, had his nose not been extraordinarily bent; Potter had broken the prominent appendage back in March, though, much to her dismay, the prefect had not managed to cause any bodily harm to the arrogant Chaser.

"No pardons for Mudbloods," snarled Lestrange, "or haven't you read the _Prophet_?"

Lily opened her mouth to retort before realising that no, she had not read the morning's _Daily Prophet_ —she had been asked by Professor McGonagall to come out to Hogsmeade Station early to help guide the younger students.

"I suspected as much," he said disdainfully, turning on his heel and boarding the train without a backwards glance. Lily almost ran into the station building to buy a _Prophet_ , but the warning whistle of the Hogwarts Express quelled that notion in favour of boarding her only way back to Surrey for the summer; she would ask one of her friends or one of the prefects for a copy once the prefect meeting had concluded.

She moved towards the front of the train slowly, glancing at open compartments for any prefects who were straggling behind. Though any appointment was more than a year off, she could not help but entertain the notion that if she were made Head Girl, there would be hell to pay for any wasters and layabouts who dared wear a prefect badge.

"Prefects to the front!" bellowed a voice that might have been unctuous if it had not been so loud, and Lily knew that Eveline Cathcart had assumed her Head Girl throne for the last time. She hurried to the compartment, where the curly-haired Slytherin girl was already glaring; her face, with its upturned nose and pinched features, resembled that of a starved pig. So did her personality, as far as Lily was concerned. She slid into a seat next to a Hufflepuff girl—Dorinda Rowley, though the girl's protruding chin was directed towards Cathcart, out of Lily's sight—and settled herself. Glancing round, she spotted Lupin; the boy looked attentive, if a bit peaky, but every so often his eyes would shift about guiltily—as well he ought to, having skived off platform duty.

Sitting at the front, Mulciber drew an overloud breath. "My fellow prefects," he began haughtily. "It has been quite a year for those of the noble badge. We have faced a time of devastating divisiveness—the ascendancy of He Who Must Not Be Named drove a wedge through the hallowed halls of Hogwarts—"

"Funny how he doesn't mention it was him and his crowd doing the dividing," Lily muttered. If Rowley had heard, she gave no outward sign.

"—a wedge that was also felt within our ranks," Mulciber continued. "Though there were times that we clashed—" (he pointedly and none-too-subtly glared at Lily) "—I dare say we have all emerged the better for our refreshing openness. It is with these words that I, John Mulciber, Head Boy of Hogwarts, abdicate my position to whoever my noble successor might be."

Most of the compartment remained silent, though a few sycophants applauded softly. Mulciber looked rather pleased. Lily felt rather ill.

"Yes, yes," Cathcart said grumpily. "Sad to see you lot go—some of you lot, anyway. Patrol as usual, punish harshly. Maximum enforcement is expected; we've still our final reports to give to Dumbledore, you know. Hop to."

In clusters of two or three, the prefects filed out of the compartment. Lily waited until Lupin passed her before sliding into his cluster.

"Where were you this morning?" she demanded.

"Cathcart seems to be in fine form today," he said airily, pointedly avoiding the question. "Reckon she's feeling a bit sentimental."

"Sentimental? Icy Eveline? You're joking."

"Nostalgia does funny things to a bird—or a bloke, for that matter," he added quickly, spotting Lily's squinty glare. She let the comment pass, however, in favour of a more pressing matter.

"Did you read the _Daily Prophet_ this morning?" she enquired. When Lupin eyed her oddly, with just a trace of fearful pity in his blue eyes, she knew not only that he had read it, but that something terrible had occurred.

"Yes," he said slowly. "Why d'you ask?"

Lily glanced round. "Just something Rabastan Lestrange said to me before he got on the train."

At the sound of that name, Lupin visibly relaxed. "Lestrange, it figures. He's always shooting his gob about something. Did you hear he's taken up with Bellatrix Black, Pa—Sirius's cousin?" The almost imperceptible flash of sadness on his face told her that the Gryffindor quartet had not yet resolved all their quarrels.

"You mean Potter's old bird?" she asked sweetly, taking great pleasure when Lupin blanched.

"So you've heard about that..."

"Who hasn't? Plus, you know, I was the one who had to hex Black off of Potter in front of the common room."

"I thought it might've been you," he said, a trace of fondness in his voice. "I take it you made them explain themselves?"

"Not really," Lily admitted. "Found Potter later, though, in the Owlery."

"He talked to you, then?" Lupin asked, surprised.

"Well, yeah," Lily said. "Why wouldn't he?"

"No reason," Lupin said, refusing to meet her eyes as he said it. "What did Lestrange say that made you so curious about the morning paper?"

"Something about pardons," Lily admitted. "The rest isn't important."

Lily could almost see it as the gears of Lupin's fairly keen mind whirred into action, putting the pieces together to come to the entirely correct conclusion that the rest was really the reason she was asking and, more importantly, just what the rest was.

"He's talking about the Winchcombes," Lupin said darkly. "They were a rather large family—mum, dad, and eight kids."

"Magical?"

"The mum was a Muggle," he continued. "The dad was Muggle-born, a minor official for the Ministry. Department of Magical Transportation or something, one of the departments no one really talks about."

"What happened?"

"Mr Winchcombe stabbed his family to death," Lupin said, his voice dry and his posture stiff. "It was...messy. That...mark was hanging over the house when those Muggle law-keepers—"

"Policemen?"

"Yeah, please-men, when they arrived. The Aurors had to call in Obliviators for the neighbours, the screaming was so bad. When they got Winchcombe in for questioning, he pleaded Imperius."

"Can they prove it?"

"I'm not sure—we've not had to prove Imperius for a long time, probably not since before Grindelwald. Not that it'd matter."

"Why not? I mean, if he was under Imperius, it wouldn't be his own doing, would it?"

"Well, the Minister for Magic, he's supposed to speak on the matter before the Wizengamot tomorrow—the trial is set for July. He told the _Prophet_ that there'd be no pardon without conclusive proof of Imperius."

"They'll just have to get that, won't they then?"

Lupin looked at her sadly, and Lily suddenly felt both very indignant and very ignorant. "Evans, conclusive proof is Ministry-speak for a confession."

"But that's..."

"Pretty bloody unlikely, I know," Lupin replied. Lily thought about saying something before she realised she had nothing to say—there was nothing _to_ say. Their patrol passed in silence until a voice called out to Lily:

"Evans," said Emmeline Vance from within her compartment. "Could I speak with you for a moment?"

Lily turned to Lupin. "You can finish this on your own, can't you?"

"You're not technically supposed to—"

"Thanks!" Lily said over Lupin's protests. As she walked past him, she added under her breath, "You great skiving git."

Stepping into Emmeline's compartment, she turned to the girl. "Finish your patrol already?"

Emmeline nodded. "I got off rather light, most of mine were empty."

"What do you need?"

Emmeline gestured at the seat opposite her. "Sit down, I just want to talk."

"About?" Lily asked, more pointedly than she had intended.

"James."

"Potter? What about him?"

"The other day, when I told you where he was...you found him, didn't you?" The stately witch seemed like she was repressing a rather pronounced series of squirms.

"Yeah, he was in the Owlery, like you said. Thanks for that, by the way," Lily said neutrally. She had no idea where this was going; it was a discomforting feeling. Still, she owed Emmeline the courtesy of a conversation—the older girl had usually sided with her during the numerous conflicts within the prefect fleet.

"Did you talk to him?"

"Yeah, I suppose."

"What about?" Emmeline's face was uncharacteristically tight, as if she was suffering from some great inner strain.

Lily arched an eyebrow. "Him being a sorry wanker, Bellatrix Black being a tarted-up nutter—I imagine you know the story."

Emmeline fell quiet.

"What?" Lily asked, leaning forwards enquiringly.

"Did you—erm—how did you handle it—I mean, him?"

"Why are you asking?" Lily asked warily. "I told him the truth—it was his fault, he buggered it up, and he ought to realise that everyone gets hurt because he can't look past his own bloody nose."

"Oh," Emmeline said, frowning slightly.

"Oh?" Lily replied. "Oh what?"

She paused. "Nothing," Emmeline said with a weak smile.

"All right," Lily said hesitantly. "I'll be going then; I've got to meet my friends." She stood and moved towards the door of the compartment—she had set her foot past the doorway when:

"Wait," Emmeline said hurriedly.

"What is it?" Lily asked, more than a little exasperated.

"I probably shouldn't be telling you this, you know, but...well, you really ought to go a bit easier on him."

"On Potter? Why?"

"He's a bit...I suppose fragile is the best word for it."

"Fragile?" Lily said incredulously. "James bloody Potter, King of the Chasers? What's he got to be fragile about?"

"You've not noticed it, then?" Emmeline asked curiously. "He's fine when he's with his friends, though—I suppose that's really how you've seen him, but...if he's alone—"

"I've seen him on his own before and, trust me, fragile is not the word I'd use to describe him," Lily said insistently.

"I mean really on his own—you can't pretend he's been in top form since that scuffle with Black—"

"Heard about that too, I s'pose," Lily muttered.

"Who hasn't?" Emmeline replied. "The distinct lack of explosive devices at the Leaving Feast is proof enough that James and Black—James and all his friends, likely as not—aren't exactly there for one another right now. Now, you're telling me he's the same James Potter who blew up the library in November?"

Lily opened her mouth to say that yes, it was the same arrogant, bullying toerag who had no regard for anyone but himself, but suddenly she found herself back in the Owlery, looking at a very scared, very hurt boy who could not have blown up a teacup, let alone a library. "Of course he is," she said, though her voice was not nearly as confident as it was before.

Emmeline looked at her appraisingly. "Perhaps I'm wrong," she said slowly.

"Most likely," Lily agreed quickly. "Now, I've really got to be going, you know—"

"Right, right, fine," Emmeline said, waving the redhead in the direction of another compartment. "Have a nice holiday."

"You too," Lily replied.

In the remaining hours of the journey back to London, Lily forgot all about Potter and his apparently estranged cohorts. Instead, she spent her time with her friends, all of whom seemed quite intent on planning for the summer in various, colourful ways. There were charts, maps, and diagrams, all craftily enchanted to display the quintet in varying shades of lavenders, yellows, and purples—Elizabeth's work, most likely, as she was rather fond of those colours. The fact that the charms occasionally stalled, leaving a mauve stick-figure rendition of Lily scowling as it butted uselessly against the solid bar underlining the word JULY. Chuckling softly, Lily rummaged through her trunk and pulled out her Defence text—hopefully she had done well enough on her OWL to take NEWT-level Defence, though Professor Morley had made no mention of any prerequisites for the class.

"Lily, did you notice anything funny on your patrol?" asked Bettina.

Lily's mind snapped out of Chapter Eleven -- Disheartening Hexes and back into the conversation.

"No, not really," she said thoughtfully. "Lupin and I actually didn't run into any trouble, for once. Great bloody relief, that was."

"Lupin was with you?" Elizabeth enquired. "I thought he was skiving for sure."

"Why would he?" asked Winifred Bones.

"He did on the train back after Christmas hols," Havalina said, remembering, "to laze about with Potter and that crowd. I remember Lily was in a right fury about that."

"I just can't stand layabouts, especially ones with prefect badges," Lily grumbled. "But he didn't skive this time."

"Did he say why?" Bettina asked.

"No," Lily replied. "He didn't say. We don't exactly get on, him being Potter's lackey and all—" Lily put the pieces together in her head; Lupin's sudden surge of responsibility, Emmeline's words, the startling lack of conflict or Dungbombs on the Hogwarts Express...

"They've had a row, haven't you heard?" Havalina said.

"Well, yes," Lily said, blushing furiously at her own sluggishness in connecting what now seemed like extraordinarily obvious clues. "I mean, I've not smelt anything particularly foul since we left the castle, so I supposed they must've."

"Looks to be a bad one, at that," Bettina said sagely. "They're all holed up in the same compartment, but none of them are talking."

"Was Lupin doing the pretending-to-read thing?" asked Havalina. "He did it over at the lake after the Defence exam; it must be some sort of 'bugger off' signal."

"I didn't see that much," Bettina admitted. "I just peeked in when I was looking for you lot—I thought it was an empty compartment, at first."

"Remind me why we care, please?" Lily asked sharply.

"Bit of a strange situation, what with none of the Gryffindor boys in the fifth year talking to each other."

"Oh, I think Peter's still speaking to...well, all of them. Separately, I guess," Elizabeth said casually.

"And how would you know?" Havalina enquired, grinning widely and leering at her diminutive friend.

Elizabeth shrunk away from the taller girl, mumbling something about study groups and the Gobstones Club that Lily did not care to catch. Fortunately, she was spared any further interrogation by the calls of the trolley witch announcing that they had only five minutes before they arrived at King's Cross. Suddenly realising that she was still in her school robes, Lily hurriedly packed them away in their trunk and changed into something Muggle.

Muggle. Lily wondered when exactly she had stopped using normal to describe the world she had spent the first decade of her life in, exchanging it for the stranger one of wands and broomsticks and arrogant boys with messy black hair...

"Lily, grab your trunk and come on!" called Havalina—the other girls had taken off without her, and she had to hurry to catch up to her friends as the train slowed to a stop. Suddenly the corridors between compartments were filled with students and their trunks, pushing and fighting to the extent that she felt the need to lift her owl cage above their heads to prevent any lasting harm from coming to Lennox.

As they all filed out onto platform nine-and-three-quarters, a bearded old wizard stood at the barrier between the magical platform and the Muggle world, looking distinctly odd in his dark blue Muggle policeman's uniform and a tall, pointy wizard's hat of the same colour. Fortunately for everyone, his mismatched attire did not reflect on his attentiveness, as he was wise enough to only let two or three students pass through the barrier at a time. Ahead of her in the queue by two groups was none other than Potter—she could pick the familiar head of chronically dishevelled hair out of a crowd; she had done so often, having been the only prefect (besides Lupin, who was as good as useless when it came to Potter anyway) not afraid of Potter's expansive repertoire of tricky and humiliating hexes.

"Hey, Potter!" she called out—looking back, she had no idea why she had done it, except for some odd, lingering recollection of Emmeline's words not three hours before. He turned, his face somewhat dimmer than she was used to seeing it; some hidden light was missing, and for the first time she noticed that neither Black nor Lupin was part of his three-student group.

"All right, Evans?" he replied—there was barely a trace of the false basso he had tried at the lakeside more than a week ago; this was somewhere between that and the vaguely cracked tones of the Owlery. It was his normal voice, she realised with a start.

"You—" She thought of Emmeline's words on the train. Fragility. "Take care, Potter!"

He arched an eyebrow sceptically, and Lily thought she might have gone red under his scrutiny. Oh, Lily though dismally, he was never going to let her forget this. It was a terrible mistake—Emmeline had set her up, she had to have, and now Lily was going to be haunted from now until NEWTs about the one time she actively tried to maintain civility with Potter and—

"You too, Evans," he called back, disappearing beyond the barrier.

Lily gaped at the spot where he once stood, shuffling forwards with the queue.

"Go on, lass," said the kindly wizard at the barrier, and Lily realised that she was now face to face with the barrier between her Hogwarts life and her family. "Don't be frightened."

Lily stifled a scoff and stepped through the barrier, back to her Mug—to normalcy. She stood at the station, scouring King's Cross for her mother and father like any other student fresh off the school train. She would live the normal life, for two whole months out of the year, just as she had done every year since she had turned eleven. Except this year...

"Funny bloke, that Potter," she murmured to herself.

Perhaps not _too_ normal.


End file.
